3   1822  01026  2848 


ANNE  DOUGLAS 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


& 

P_^ 
c, 

3537 


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HlO 


jfranfclin  TOtnelow  IKane 


ffranfclfn  Wfnslow  Ikane 


BY 


Hnne  Douglas  Seta 


(MRS.  BASIL 

AUTHOR  OF    "  A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED,"     "  AMABEL  CHANNICE," 

"THE  CONFOUNDING  OF  CAMELIA,"    "THE  RESCUE." 

"  THE  SHADOW  OF  LIFE,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

TOe  Century  Go* 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,   April,   1910 


J.   F.  TAPLEY  CO. 

NEW    YORK 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 


CHAPTER  I 

MISS  ALTHEA  JAKES  was  tired  after  her  long 
journey  from  Basle.  It  was  a  brilliant  summer 
afternoon,  and  though  the  shutters  were  half  closed  on 
the  beating  Parisian  sunlight,  the  hotel  sitting-room 
looked,  in  its  brightness,  hardly  shadowed.  Unpinning 
her  hat,  laying  it  on  the  table  beside  her,  passing  her 
hands  over  the  undisordered  folds  of  her  hair,  Miss 
Jakes  looked  about  her  at  the  old-gold  brocade  of  the 
furniture,  the  many  mirrors  in  ornate  gold  frames,  the 
photographs  from  Bougereau,  the  long,  crisp  lace  cur 
tains.  It  was  the  same  sitting-room  that  she  had  had 
last  year,  the  same  that  she  had  had  the  year  before 
last — the  same,  indeed,  to  which  she  had  been  conducted 
on  her  first  stay  at  the  Hotel  Talleyrand,  eight  years 
ago.  The  brocade  looked  as  new,  the  gilded  frames  as 
glittering,  the  lace  curtains  as  snowy  as  ever.  Every 
thing  was  as  she  had  always  seen  it,  from  the  ugly 
Satsuma  vases  flanking  the  ugly  bronze  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece,  to  the  sheaf  of  pink  roses  lying  beside  her 
in  their  white  paper  wrappings.  Even  Miss  Harriet 
Eobinson's  choice  of  welcoming  flowers  was  the  same. 
So  it  had  always  been,  and  so,  no  doubt,  it  would  con 
tinue  to  be  for  many  years  to  come;  and  she,  no  doubt, 

3 


4  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

for  many  summers,  would  arrive  from  Basle  to  sit, 
.jadedly,  looking  at  it. 

Amelie,  her  maid,  was  unpacking  in  the  next  room; 
the  door  was  ajar,  and  Miss  Jakes  could  hear  the  creak 
ing  of  lifted  trays  and  the  rustling  of  multitudinous  tis 
sue-paper  layers.  The  sounds  suggested  an  answer  to  a 
dim  question  that  had  begun  to  hover  in  her  travel- 
worn  mind.  One  came  back  every  summer  to  the  Hotel 
Talleyrand  for  the  purpose  of  getting  clothes ;  that,  per 
haps,  was  a  sufficient  answer.  Yet,  to-day,  it  did  not 
seem  sufficient.  She  was  not  really  so  very  much  in 
terested  in  her  clothes;  not  nearly  enough  interested  to 
make  them  a  compensation  for  such  fatigue  and  loneli 
ness  as  she  was  now  feeling.  And  as  she  realised  this, 
a  further  question  followed:  in  what  was  she  particu 
larly  interested?  What  was  a  sufficient  motive  for  all 
the  European  journeyings  with  which  her  life,  for  the 
past  ten  or  twelve  years,  had  been  filled?  In  a  less 
jaded  mood,  in  her  usual  mood  of  mild,  if  rather  wistful, 
assurance,  she  would  have  answered  at  once  that  she 
was  interested  in  everything — in  everything  that  was 
of  the  best — pictures,  music,  places,  and  people.  These 
surely  were  her  objects. 

She  was  that  peculiarly  civilised  being,  the  American 
woman  of  independent  means  and  discriminating  tastes, 
whose  cosmopolitan  studies  and  acquaintances  give,  in 
their  multiplicity,  the  impression  of  a  full,  if  not  a 
completed,  life.  But  to-day  the  gloomy  question  hov 
ered:  was  not  the  very  pilgrimage  to  Bayreuth,  the 
study  of  archasology  in  Rome,  and  of  pictures  in  Flor 
ence,  of  much  the  same  nature  as  the  yearly  visit  to 
Paris  for  clothes?  What  was  attained  by  it  all?  Was 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  5 

it  not  something  merely  superficial,  to  be  put  on  and 
worn,  as  it  were,  not  to  be  lived  for  with  a  growing  satis 
faction?    Miss  Jakes  did  not  answer  this  question;  she 
dismissed  it  with  some  indignation,  and  she  got  up  and 
rang  rather  sharply  for  tea,  which  was  late;  and  after 
asking  the  gargon,  with  a  smile  that  in  its  gentleness 
contrasted  with  the  sharpness  of  the  pull,  that  it  might 
be  brought  at  once,  she  paused  near  the  table  to  lean 
over  and  smell  her  sheaf  of  roses,  and  to  read  again,  list 
lessly,  Miss  Harriet  Robinson's  words   of   affectionate 
greeting.     Miss  Robinson  was  a  middle-aged  American 
lady  who  lived  in  Paris,  and  had  long  urged  Althea  to 
settle  there  near  her.     Ten  years  ago,  when  she  had  first 
met  Miss  Robinson  in  Boston,  Althea  had  thought  her  a 
brilliant  and  significant  figure ;  but  she  had  by  now  met 
too  many  of  her  kind — in  Rome,  in  Florence,  in  Dresden 
— to  feel  any  wish  for  a  more  intimate  relationship.     She 
was  fond  of  Miss  Robinson,  but  she  prayed  that  fate  did 
not  reserve  for  her  a  withering  to  the  like  brisk,  colour 
less   spinsterhood.     This   hope,   the   necessity   fo^s  such 
hope,  was  the  final  depth  of  her  gloomy  mood,  and  she 
found  herself  looking  at  something  very  dark  as  she 
stood  holding  Miss  Robinson's   expensive   roses.     For, 
after  all,  what  was  going  to  become  of  her?     The  final 
depth  shaped  itself  to-day  in  more  grimly  realistic  fash 
ion  than  ever  before:  what  was  she  going  to  do  with 
herself,  in  the  last  resort,  unless  something  happened? 
Her  mind  dwelt  upon  all  the  visible  alternatives.     There 
was  philanthropic  lunch-going  and  lunch-giving  spinster- 
hood   in   Boston;    there    was   spinsterhood    in    Europe, 
semi-social,  semi-intellectual,  and  monotonous  in  its  very 
variety,  for  Althea  had  come  to  feel  change  as  monoto- 


6  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

nous;  or  there  was  spinsterhood  in  England  established 
near  her  friend,  Miss  Buckston,  who  raised  poultry  in  the 
country,  and  went  up  to  London  for  Bach  choir  practices 
and  Woman's  Suffrage  meetings.  Althea  couldn't  see 
herself  as  taking  an  interest  in  poultry  or  in  Woman's 
Suffrage,  nor  did  she  feel  herself  fitted  for  patriotic  du 
ties  in  Boston.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to 
continue  her  present  nomadic  life.  After  seeing  herself 
shut  in  to  this  conclusion,  it  was  a  real  relief  to  her  to 
hear  the  tea-tray  chink  outside  and  to  see  it  enter,  high 
on  the  gargon's  shoulder,  as  if  with  a  trivial  but  cheer 
ful  reply  to  her  dreary  questionings.  Tea,  at  all  events, 
would  always  happen  and  always  be  pleasant.  Althea 
smiled  sadly  as  she  made  the  reflection,  for  she  wras  not 
of  an  Epicurean  temperament.  After  she  had  drunk 
her  tea  she  felt  strengthened  to  go  in  and  ask  Amelie 
about  her  clothes.  She  might  have  to  get  a  great  many 
new  ones,  especially  if  she  went  home  for  the  autumn 
and  winter,  as  she  half  intended  to  do.  She  took  up  the 
roses,  as  she  passed  them,  to  show  to  Amelie.  Amelie 
was  a  bony,  efficient  Frenchwoman,  with  high  cheek 
bones  and  sleek  black  hair.  She  had  come  to  Althea 
first,  many  years  ago,  as  a  courier-maid,  to  take  her  back 
to  America.  Althea 's  mother  had  died  in  Dresden,  and 
Althea  had  been  equipped  by  anxious  friends  with  this 
competent  attendant  for  her  sad  return  journey.  Ame 
lie  had  proved  intelligent  and  reliable  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  though  she  had  made  herself  rather  dis 
agreeable  during  her  first  year  in  Boston,  she  had  stayed 
on  ever  since.  She  still  made  herself  disagreeable  from 
time  to  time,  and  Althea  had  sometimes  lacked  only  the 
courage  to  dismiss  her;  but  she  could  hardly  imagine 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  7 

herself  existing  without  Amelie,  and  in  Europe  Amelie 
was  seldom  disagreeable.  In  Europe,  at  the  worst,  she 
was  gruff  and  ungracious,  and  Althea  was  fond  enough 
of  her  to  ignore  these  failings,  although  they  frightened 
her  a  little ;  but  though  an  easily  intimidated  person,  and 
much  at  a  loss  in  meeting  opposition  or  rudeness,  she 
was  also  tenacious.  She  might  be  frightened,  but  peo 
ple  could  never  make  her  do  what  she  didn't  want  to 
do,  not  even  Amelie.  Her  relations  with  Amelie  were 
slightly  strained  just  now,  for  she  had  not  taken  her  ad 
vice  as  to  their  return  journey  from  Venice.  Amelie 
had  insisted  on  Mont  Cenis,  and  Althea  had  chosen  the 
St.  Gothard ;  so  that  it  was  as  a  measure  of  propitiation 
that  she  selected  three  of  the  roses  for  Amelie  as  she 
went  into  the  bedroom.  Amelie,  who  was  kneeling  be 
fore  one  of  the  larger  boxes  and  carefully  lifting  skirts 
from  its  trays,  paused  to  sniff  at  the  flowers,  and  to  ex 
press  a  terse  thanks  and  admiration.  "Ah,  bien  merci, 
mademoiselle, ' '  she  said,  laying  her  share  on  the  table  be 
side  her. 

She  was  not  very  encouraging  about  the  condition  of 
Althea 's  wardrobe. 

"Elles  sont  defraichies — demodees — en  verite,  made 
moiselle,"  she  replied,  when  Althea  asked  if  many  new 
purchases  were  necessary. 

Althea  sighed.     "All  the  fittings!" 

"II  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  belle,"  said  Amelie  un- 
sympathetically. 

Althea  had  not  dared  yet  to  tell  her  that  she  might  be 
going  back  to  America  that  winter.  The  thought  of 
Amelie 's  gloom  cast  a  shadow  over  the  project,  and  she 
could  not  yet  quite  face  it.  She  wandered  back  to  the 


8  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

sitting-room,  and,  thinking  of  Amelie's  last  words,  she 
stood  for  some  time  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  large 
mirror  which  rose  from  mantelpiece  to  cornice,  enclosed 
in  cascades  of  gilt.  One  of  the  things  that  Althea,  in 
her  mild  assurance,  was  really  secure  of — for,  as  we 
have  intimated,  her  assurance  often  covered  a  certain  in 
security — was  her  own  appearance.  She  didn't  know 
about  "belle,"  that  seemed  rather  a  trivial  term,  and  the 
English  equivalent  better  to  express  the  distinctive  char 
acteristic  of  her  face.  She  had  so  often  been  told  she 
was  nobly  beautiful  that  she  did  not  see  herself  critically, 
and  she  now  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
gazed  at  herself  with  sad  approbation.  The  mirror  re 
flected  only  her  head  and  shoulders,  and  Miss  Jakes 's 
figure  could  not,  even  by  a  partisan,  have  been  described 
as  beautiful;  she  was  short,  and  though  immature  in 
outline,  her  form  was  neither  slender  nor  graceful.  Al 
thea  did  not  feel  these  defects,  and  was  well  satisfied 
with  her  figure,  especially  with  her  carriage,  which  was 
full  of  dignity;  but  it  was  her  head  that  best  pleased 
her,  and  her  head,  indeed,  had  aspects  of  great  benignity 
and  sweetness.  It  was  a  large  head,  crowned  with  coils 
of  dull  gold  hair;  her  clothing  followed  the  fashions 
obediently,  but  her  fashion  of  dressing  her  hair  did  not 
vary,  and  the  smooth  parting,  the  carved  ripples  along 
her  brow  became  her,  though  they  did  not  become  her 
stiffly  conventional  attire.  Her  face,  though  almost  clas 
sic  in  its  spaces  and  modelling,  lacked  in  feature  the 
classic  decision  and  amplitude,  so  that  the  effect  was 
rather  that  of  a  dignified  room  meagrely  furnished. 
For  these  deficiencies,  however,  Miss  Jakes 's  eyes  might 
well  be  accepted  as  atonement.  They  were  large,  dark, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  9 

and  innocent;  they  lay  far  apart,  heavily  lidded  and 
with  wistful  eyebrows  above  them;  their  expression  va 
ried  easily  from  lucid  serenity  to  a  stricken,  expectant 
look,  like  that  of  a  threatened  doe,  and  slight  causes 
could  make  Miss  Jakes 's  eyes  look  stricken.  They  did 
not  look  stricken  now,  but  they  looked  profoundly  mel 
ancholy. 

Here  she  stood,  in  the  heartless  little  French  sitting- 
room,  meaning  so  well,  so  desirous  of  the  best,  yet  alone, 
uncertain  of  any  aim,  and  very  weary  of  everything. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALTHEA,  though  a  cosmopolitan  wanderer,  had  sel 
dom  stayed  in  an  hotel  unaccompanied.  She  did 
not  like,  now,  going  down  to  the  table  d'hote  dinner 
alone,  and  was  rather  glad  that  her  Aunt  Julia  and 
Aunt  Julia's  two  daughters  were  to  arrive  in  Paris  next 
week.  It  was  really  almost  the  only  reason  she  had  for 
being  glad  of  Aunt  Julia's  arrival,  and  she  could  imagine 
no  reason  for  being  glad  of  the  girls '.  Tiresome  as  it  was 
to  think  of  going  to  tea  with  Miss  Harriet  Robinson,  to 
think  of  hearing  from  her  all  the  latest  gossip,  and  all 
the  latest  opinions  of  the  latest  books  and  pictures — 
alert,  mechanical  appreciations  with  which  Miss  Robin 
son  was  but  too  ready — it  was  yet  more  tiresome  to  look 
forward  to  Aunt  Julia's  appreciations,  which  were  dog 
matic  and  often  belated,  and  to  foresee  that  she  must 
run  once  more  the  gauntlet  of  Aunt  Julia's  disapproval 
of  expatriated  Americans.  Althea  was  accustomed  to 
these  assaults  and  met  them  with  weary  dignity,  at  times 
expostulating :  "  It  is  all  very  well  for  you,  Aunt  Julia, 
who  have  Uncle  Tom  and  the  girls ;  I  have  nobody,  and 
all  my  friends  are  married. ' '  But  this  brought  upon  her 
an  invariable  retort:  "Well,  why  don't  you  get  mar 
ried  then?  Franklin  Winslow  Kane  asks  nothing 
better."  This  retort  angered  Althea,  but  she  was  too 
fond  of  Franklin  Winslow  Kane  to  reply  that  perhaps 
she,  herself,  did  ask  something  better.  So  that  it  was 

10 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  11 

as  a  convenience,  and  not  as  a  comfort,  that  she  looked 
forward  to  Aunt  Julia;  and  to  the  girls  she  did  not  look 
forward  at  all.  They  were  young,  ebullient,  slangy; 
they  belonged  to  a  later  generation  than  her  own, 
strange  to  her  in  that  it  seemed  weighted  with  none  of 
the  responsibilities  and  reverences  that  she  had  grown 
up  among.  It  was  a  generation  that  had  no  respect  for 
and  no  anxiety  concerning  Europe;  that  played  violent 
outdoor  games,  and  went  without  hats  in  summer. 

The  dining-room  was  full  when  she  went  down  to 
dinner,  her  inward  tremor  of  shyness  sustained  by  the 
consciousness  of  the  perfect  fit  and  cut  of  her  elaborate 
little  dress.  People  sat  at  small  tables,  and  the  general 
impression  was  one  of  circumspection  and  withdrawal. 
Most  of  the  occupants  were  of  Althea's  type — richly 
dressed,  quiet-voiced  Americans,  careful  of  their  own 
dignity  and  quick  at  assessing  other  people's.  A 
French  family  loudly  chattered  and  frankly  stared  in 
one  corner ;  for  the  rest,  all  seemed  to  be  compatriots. 

But  after  Althea  had  taken  her  seat  at  her  own  table 
near  the  pleasantly  open  window,  and  had  consulted  the 
menu  and  ordered  a  half-bottle  of  white  wine,  another 
young  woman  entered  and  went  to  the  last  vacant  table 
left  in  the  room,  the  table  next  Althea's — so  near,  indeed, 
that  the  waiter  found  some  difficulty  in  squeezing  him 
self  between  them  when  he  presented  the  carte  des  vins 
to  the  newcomer. 

She  was  not  an  American,  Althea  felt  sure  of  this  at 
once,  and  the  mere  negation  was  so  emphatic  that  it 
almost  constituted,  for  the  first  startled  glance,  a  com 
plete  definition.  But,  glancing  again  and  again,  while 
she  ate  her  soup,  Althea  realised  there  were  so  many 


12  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

familiar  things  the  newcomer  was  not,  that  she  seemed 
made  up  of  differences.  The  fact  that  she  was  English 
— she  spoke  to  the  waiter  absent-mindedly  in  that  tongue 
— did  not  make  her  less  different,  for  she  was  like  no 
English  person  that  Althea  had  ever  seen.  She  engaged 
at  once  the  whole  of  her  attention,  but  at  first  Althea 
could  not  have  said  whether  this  attention  were  admir 
ing;  her  main  impression  was  of  oddity,  of  something 
curiously  arresting  and  noticeable. 

The  newcomer  sat  in  profile  to  Althea,  her  back  to  the 
room,  facing  the  open  window,  out  of  which  she  gazed 
vaguely  and  unseeingly.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  a 
thin  dress,  rather  frayed  along  the  edges — an  evening 
dress ;  though,  as  a  concession  to  Continental  custom,  she 
had  a  wide  black  scarf  over  her  bare  shoulders.  She 
sat,  leaning  forward,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  once, 
when  she  glanced  round  and  found  Althea 's  eyes  fixed 
on  her,  she  looked  back  for  a  moment,  but  with  some 
thing  of  the  same  vagueness  and  unseeingness  with 
which  she  looked  out  of  the  window. 

She  was  very  odd.  An  enemy  might  say  that  she  had 
Chinese  eyes  and  a  beak-like  nose.  The  beak  was  small, 
as  were  all  the  features — delicately,  decisively  placed  in 
the  pale,  narrow  face — yet  it  jutted  over  prominently, 
and  the  long  eyes  were  updrawn  at  the  outer  corners 
and  only  opened  widely  with  an  effect  of  effort.  She 
had  quantities  of  hair,  dense  and  dark,  arranged  with  an 
ordered  carelessness,  and  widely  framing  her  face  and 
throat.  She  was  very  thin,  and  she  seemed  very  tired; 
and  fatigue,  which  made  Althea  look  wistful,  made  this 
young  lady  look  bored  and  bitter.  Her  eyes,  perhaps 
it  was  the  strangeness  of  their  straight-drawn  upper 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  13 

lids,  were  dazed  and  dim  in  expression.  She  ate  little, 
leaned  limply  on  her  elbows,  and  sometimes  rubbed  her 
hands  over  her  face,  and  sat  so,  her  fingers  in  her  hair, 
for  a  languid  moment.  Dinner  was  only  half  over  when 
she  rose  and  went  away,  her  black  dress  trailing  behind 
her,  and  a  moon-like  space  of  neck  visible  between  her 
heavily-clustered  hair  and  the  gauze  scarf. 

Althea  could  not  have  said  why,  but  for  the  rest  of 
the  meal,  and  after  she  had  gone  back  to  her  sitting- 
room,  the  thought  of  the  young  lady  in  black  remained 
almost  oppressively  with  her. 

She  had  felt  empty  and  aimless  before  seeing  her; 
since  seeing  her  she  felt  more  empty,  more  aimless  than 
ever.  It  was  an  absurd  impression,  and  she  tried  to 
shake  it  off  with  the  help  of  a  recent  volume  of  literary 
criticism,  but  it  coloured  her  mind  as  though  a  drop  of 
some  potent  chemical  had  been  tipped  into  her  uncom 
fortable  yet  indefinable  mood,  and  had  suddenly  made 
visible  in  it  all  sorts  of  latent  elements. 

It  was  curious  to  feel,  as  a  deep  conviction  about  a 
perfect  stranger,  that  though  the  young  lady  in  black 
might  often  know  moods,  they  would  never  be  undefined 
ones ;  to  be  sure  that,  however  little  she  had,  she  would 
always  accurately  know  what  she  wanted.  The  effect 
of  seeing  some  one  so  hard,  so  clear,  so  alien,  was  much 
as  if,  a  gracefully  moulded  but  fragile  earthenware  pot, 
she  had  suddenly,  while  floating  down  the  stream,  found 
herself  crashing  against  the  bronze  vessel  of  the  fable. 

A  corrective  to  this  morbid  state  of  mind  came  to  her 
with  the  evening  post,  and  in  the  form  of  a  thick  letter 
bearing  the  Boston  postmark.  Franklin  Winslow  Kane 
had  not  occurred  to  Althea  as  an  alternative  to  the 


14  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

various  forms  of  dignified  extinction  with  which  her 
imagination  had  been  occupied  that  afternoon.  Frank 
lin  often  occurred  to  her  as  a  solace,  but  he  never  oc 
curred  to  her  as  an  escape. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  very  homespun  extraction, 
who  hovered  in  Boston  on  the  ambiguous  verge  between 
the  social  and  the  scholastic  worlds;  the  sort  of  young 
man  whom  one  asked  to  tea  rather  than  to  dinner.  He 
was  an  earnest  student,  and  was  attached  to  the  univer 
sity  by  an  official,  though  unimportant,  tie.  A  physicist, 
and,  in  his  own  sober  way,  with  something  of  a  reputa 
tion,  he  was  profoundly  involved  in  theories  that  dealt 
with  the  smallest  things  and  the  largest — molecules  and 
the  formation  of  universes. 

He  had  first  proposed  to  Althea  when  she  was 
eighteen.  She  was  now  thirty-three,  and  for  all  these 
years  Franklin  had  proposed  to  her  on  every  occasion 
that  offered  itself.  He  was  deeply,  yet  calmly,  de 
terminedly,  yet  ever  so  patiently,  in  love  with  her;  and 
while  other  more  eligible  and  more  easily  consoled 
aspirants  had  drifted  away  and  got  married  and  become 
absorbed  in  their  growing  families,  Franklin  alone  re 
mained  admirably  faithful.  She  had  never  given  him 
any  grounds  for  expecting  that  she  might  some  day 
marry  him,  yet  he  evidently  found  it  impossible  to 
marry  anybody  else.  This  was  the  touching  fact  about 
Franklin,  the  one  bright  point,  as  it  were,  in  his  singu 
larly  colourless  personality.  His  fidelity  was  like  a 
fleck  of  orange  on  the  wing  of  some  grey,  unobtrusive 
moth;  it  made  him  visible. 

Althea 's  compassionate  friendship  seemed  to  sustain 
him  sufficiently  on  his  way;  he  did  not  pine  or  protest, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  15 

though  he  punctually  requested.  He  frequently  ap 
peared  and  he  indefatigably  wrote,  and  his  long  con 
stancy,  the  unemotional  trust  and  closeness  of  their 
intimacy,  made  him  seem  less  a  lover  than  the  Ameri 
can  husband  of  tradition,  devoted  and  uncomplaining, 
who  had  given  up  hoping  that  his  wife  would  ever  come 
home  and  live  with  him. 

Althea  rather  resented  this  aspect  of  their  relation; 
she  was  well  aware  of  its  comicality ;  but  though  Frank 
lin 's  devotion  was  at  times  something  of  a  burden, 
though  she  could  expect  from  him  none  of  the  glamour 
of  courtship,  she  could  ill  have  dispensed  with  his  ab 
sorption  in  her.  Franklin's  absorption  in  her  was  part 
of  her  own  personality;  she  would  hardly  have  known 
herself  without  it;  and  her  relation  to  him,  irksome, 
even  absurd  as  she  sometimes  found  it,  was  perhaps  the 
one  thing  in  her  life  that  most  nearly  linked  her  to 
reality;  it  was  a  mirage,  at  all  events,  of  the  re 
sponsible  affections  that  her  life  lacked. 

And  now,  in  her  mood  of  positive  morbidity,  the  sight 
of  Franklin 's  handwriting  on  the  thick  envelope  brought 
her  the  keenest  sense  she  had  ever  had  of  his  value.  One 
might  have  no  aim  oneself,  yet  to  be  some  one  else's  aim 
saved  one  from  that  engulfing  consciousness  of  nonen 
tity;  one  might  be  uncertain  and  indefinite,  but  a  devo 
tion  like  Franklin's  really  defined  one.  She  must  be 
significant,  after  all,  since  this  very  admirable  person — 
admirable,  though  ineligible — had  found  her  so  for  so 
many  years.  It  was  with  a  warming  sense  of  restora 
tion,  almost  of  reconstruction,  that  she  opened  the  letter, 
drew  out  the  thickly-folded  sheets  of  thin  paper  and 
began  to  read  the  neat,  familiar  writing.  He  told  her 


16  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

everything  that  he  was  doing  and  thinking,  and  about 
everything  that  interested  him.  He  wrote  to  her  of 
kinetics  and  atoms  as  if  she  had  been  a  fellow-student. 
It  was  as  if,  helplessly,  he  felt  the  whole  bulk  of  his 
outlook  to  be  his  only  chance  of  interesting  her,  since 
no  detail  was  likely  to  do  so.  Unfortunately  it  didn't 
interest  her  much.  Franklin's  eagerness  about  some 
local  election,  or  admiration  for  some  talented  pupil,  or 
enthusiasm  in  regard  to  a  new  theory  that  delved  deeper 
and  circled  wider  than  any  before,  left  her  imagination 
inert,  as  did  he.  But  to-night  all  these  things  were 
transformed  by  the  greatness  of  her  own  need  and  of 
her  own  relief.  And  when  she  read  that  Franklin  was 
to  be  in  Europe  in  six  weeks'  time,  and  that  he  intended 
to  spend  some  months  there,  and,  if  she  would  allow  it, 
as  near  her  as  was  possible,  a  sudden  hope  rose  in  her 
and  seemed  almost  a  joy. 

Was  it  so  impossible,  after  all,  as  an  alternative? 
Equipped  with  her  own  outlooks,  with  her  wider  experi 
ence,  and  with  her  ample  means,  might  not  dear  Frank 
lin  be  eligible?  To  sink  back  on  Franklin,  after  all 
these  years,  would  be,  of  course,  to  confess  to  failure; 
but  even  in  failure  there  were  choices,  and  wasn't  this 
the  best  form  of  failure  ?  Franklin  was  not,  could  never 
be,  the  lover  she  had  dreamed  of ;  she  had  never  met  that 
lover,  and  she  had  always  dreamed  of  him.  Franklin 
was  dun-coloured;  the  lover  of  her  dreams  a  Perseus- 
like  flash  of  purple  and  gold,  ardent,  graceful,  com 
pelling,  some  one  who  would  open  doors  to  large,  bright 
vistas,  and  lead  her  into  a  life  of  beauty.  But  this  was 
a  dream  and  Franklin  was  the  fact,  and  to-night  he 
seemed  the  only  fact  worth  looking  at.  Wasn't  dun- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  17 

colour,  after  all,  preferable  to  the  trivial  kaleidoscope  of 
shifting  tints  which  was  all  that  the  future,  apart  from 
Franklin,  seemed  to  offer  her?  Might  not  dun-colour, 
even,  illuminated  by  joy,  turn  to  gold,  like  highway  dust 
when  the  sun  shines  upon  it  ?  Althea  wondered,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  and  gazing  before  her;  she  wondered 
deeply. 

If  only  Franklin  would  come  in  now  with  the  right 
look.  If  only  he  would  come  in  with  the  right  word,  or, 
if  not  with  the  word,  with  an  even  more  compelling  si 
lence!  Compulsion  was  needed,  and  could  Franklin 
compel?  Could  he  make  her  fall  in  love  with  him? 
So  she  wondered,  sitting  alone  in  the  Paris,  hotel,  the 
open  letter  in  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHEN  Althea  went  in  to  lunch  next  day,  after  an 
arduous  morning  of  shopping,  she  observed,  with 
mingled  relief  and  disappointment,  that  the  young  lady 
in  black  was  not  in  her  place.  She  might  very  probably 
have  gone  away,  and  it  was  odd  to  think  that  an  im 
pression  so  strong  was  probably  to  remain  an  impression 
merely.  On  the  whole,  she  was  sorry  to  think  that  it 
might  be  so,  though  the  impression  had  not  been  alto 
gether  happy. 

After  lunch  she  lay  down  and  read  reviews  for  a  lazy 
hour,  and  then  dressed  to  receive  Miss  Harriet  Robinson, 
who,  voluble  and  beaming,  arrived  punctually  at  four. 

Miss  Robinson  looked  almost  exactly  as  she  had  looked 
for  the  last  ten  years.  She  changed  as  little  as  the  hotel 
drawing-room,  but  that  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  the 
vases  on  the  shelf  of  her  mental  decoration  varied  with 
every  season.  She  was  always  passionately  interested 
in  something,  and  it  was  surprising  to  note  how  com 
pletely  in  the  new  she  forgot  last  year's  passion.  This 
year  it  was  eugenics  and  Strauss ;  the  welfare  of  the  race 
had  suddenly  engaged  her  attention,  and  the  menaced 
future  of  music.  She  was  slender,  erect,  and  beautifully 
dressed.  Her  hands  were  small,  and  she  constantly  but 
inexpressively  gesticulated  with  them;  her  elaborately 
undulated  hair  looked  like  polished,  fluted  silver;  her 

18 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  19 

eyes  were  small,  dark,  and  intent;  she  smiled  as  con 
stantly  and  as  inexpressively  as  she  gesticulated. 

"And  so  you  really  think  of  going  back  for  the  win 
ter?"  she  asked  Althea  finally,  when  the  responsibilities 
of  parenthood  and  the  impermanency  of  modern  musical 
artifices  had  been  demonstrated.  "Why,  my  dear? 
You  see  everybody  here.  Everybody  comes  here,  sooner 
or  later." 

"I  don't  like  getting  out  of  touch  with  home,"  said 
Althea. 

' '  I  confess  that  I  feel  this  home, ' '  said  Miss  Robinson. 
"America  is  so  horribly  changed,  so  vulgarised.  The 
people  they  accept  socially !  And  the  cost  of  things ! 
My  dear,  the  last  time  I  went  to  the  States  I  had  to  pay 
five  hundred  francs — one  hundred  dollars — for  my  win 
ter  hat!  Je  vous  demande!  If  they  will  drive  us  out 
they  must  take  the  consequences." 

Althea  felt  tempted  to  inquire  what  these  might  be. 
Miss  Robinson  sometimes  roused  a  slight  irony  in  her; 
but  she  received  the  expostulation  with  a  dim  smile. 

"Why  won't  you  settle  here?"  Miss  Robinson  con 
tinued,  "or  in  Rome — there  is  quite  a  delightful  society 
in  Rome — or  Florence,  or  London.  Not  that  I  could 
endure  the  English  winter." 

"I  've  sometimes  thought  of  England,"  said  Althea. 

"Well,  do  think  of  it.  I  'm  perfectly  disinterested. 
Rather  than  have  you  unsettled,  I  would  like  to  have  you 
settled  there.  You  have  interesting  friends,  I  know." 

"Yes,  very  interesting,"  said  Althea,  with  some  satis 
faction. 

"You  would  probably  make  quite  a  place  for  yourself 
in  London,  if  you  went  at  it  carefully  and  consideringly, 


20  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

and  didn't  allow  the  wrong  sort  of  people  to  accaparer 
you.  We  always  count,  when  we  want  to,  we  American 
women  of  the  good  type, ' '  said  Miss  Robinson,  with  frank 
complacency;  "and  I  don't  see  why,  with  your  gifts 
and  charm,  you  shouldn't  have  a  salon,  political  or 
artistic." 

Althea  was  again  tempted  to  wonder  what  it  was  Miss 
Robinson  counted  for;  but  since  she  had  often  been  told 
that  her  gifts  and  charm  demanded  a  salon,  she  was 
inclined  to  believe  it.  "It  's  only, ' '  she  demurred,  ' ' that 
I  have  so  many  friends,  in  so  many  places ;  it  is  hard  to 
decide  on  settling." 

"One  never  does  make  a  real  life  for  oneself  until  one 
does  settle.  I  've  found  that  out  for  myself,"  said  Miss 
Robinson. 

It  did  not  enter  into  her  mind  that  Althea  might  still 
settle,  in  a  different  sense.  She  was  of  that  vast  army  of 
rootless  Europeanised  Americans,  who  may  almost  be 
said  to  belong  to  a  celibate  order,  so  little  does  the  ques 
tion  of  matrimony  and  family  life  affect  their  existence. 
For  a  younger,  more  frivolous  type,  Europe  might  have 
a  merely  matrimonial  significance ;  but  to  Miss  Robinson, 
and  to  thousands  of  her  kind,  it  meant  an  escape  from 
displeasing  circumstance  and  a  preoccupation  almost 
monastic  with  the  abstract  and  the  aBsthetic.  To  Althea 
it  had  never  meant  merely  that.  Her  own  people  in 
America  were  fastidious  and  exclusive;  from  choice, 
they  considered,  but,  in  reality,  partly  from  necessity; 
they  had  never  been  rich  enough  or  fashionable  enough 
to  be  exposed  to  the  temptation  of  great  European  alli 
ances.  Althea  would  have  scorned  such  ambitions  as 
basely  vulgar;  she  had  never  thought  of  Europe  as  an 


21 

arena  for  social  triumphs;  but  it  had  assuredly  been 
coloured  for  her  with  the  colour  of  romance.  It  was  in 
Europe,  rather  than  in  America,  that  she  expected  to 
find,  if  ever,  her  ardent,  compelling  wooer.  And  it  irri 
tated  her  a  little  that  Miss  Robinson  should  not  seem  to 
consider  such  a  possibility  for  her. 

She  did  not  accept  her  friend's  invitation  to  go  with 
her  to  the  Frangais  that  evening;  the  weariness  of  the 
morning  of  shopping  was  her  excuse.  She  wanted  to 
study  a  little;  she  never  neglected  to  keep  her  mind  in 
training;  and  after  dinner  she  sat  down  with  a  stout 
tome  on  political  economy.  She  had  only  got  through 
half  a  chapter  when  Amelie  came  to  her  and  asked  her 
if  she  could  suggest  a  remedy  for  a  young  lady  next  door 
who,  the  femme  de  cliambre  said,  was  quite  alone,  and 
had  evidently  succumbed  to  a  violent  attack  of  in 
fluenza. 

"C'est  une  dame  anglaise,"  said  Amelie,  "et  une  bien 
gentille." 

Althea  sprang  up,  strangely  excited.  Was  it  the  lady 
in  black?  Had  she  then  not  gone  yet?  "Next  door, 
you  say?"  she  asked.  Yes;  the  stranger's  bedroom  was 
next  her  own  and  she  had  no  salon. 

' '  I  will  go  in  myself  and  see  her, ' '  said  Althea,  after  a 
moment  of  reflection. 

She  was  not  at  all  given  to  such  impulses,  and,  under 
any  other  circumstances,  would  have  sent  Amelie  with 
the  offer  of  assistance.  But  she  suddenly  felt  it  an  op 
portunity,  for  \vhat  she  could  not  have  said.  It  was 
like  seeing  a  curious-looking  book  opened  before  one; 
one  wanted  to  read  in  it,  if  only  a  snatched  paragraph 
here  and  there. 


22  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Amelie  protested  as  to  infection,  but  Althea  was  a 
resourceful  traveller  and  had  disinfectants  for  every 
occasion.  She  drenched  her  handkerchief,  gargled  her 
throat,  and,  armed  with  her  little  case  of  remedies, 
knocked  at  the  door  near  by.  A  languid  voice  answered 
her  and  she  entered. 

The  room  was  lighted  by  two  candles  that  stood  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  the  bed  in  its  alcove  was  dim.  Tossed 
clothes  lay  on  the  chairs;  a  battered  box  stood  open,  its 
tray  lying  on  the  floor;  the  dressing-table  was  in  con 
fusion,  and  the  scent  of  cigarette  smoke  mingled  with 
that  of  a  tall  white  lily  that  was  placed  in  a  vase  on  a 
little  table  beside  the  bed.  To  the  well-maided  Althea 
the  disorder  was  appalling,  yet  it  expressed,  too,  some 
thing  of  charm.  The  invalid  lay  plunged  in  her  pillows, 
her  dark  hair  tossed  above  her  head,  and,  as  Althea  ap 
proached,  she  did  not  unclose  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Althea,  feeling  some 
trepidation.  "My  maid  told  me  that  you  were  ill — that 
you  had  influenza,  and  I  know  just  what  to  do  for  it. 
May  I  give  you  some  medicine?  I  do  hope  I  have  not 
waked  you  up,"  for  the  invalid  was  now  looking  at  her 
with  some  astonishment. 

"No;  I  wasn't  asleep.  How  very  kind  of  you.  I 
thought  it  was  the  chambermaid,"  she  said.  "Forgive 
me  for  seeming  so  rude. ' ' 

Her  eyes  were  more  dazed  than  ever,  and  she  more 
mysterious,  with  her  unbound  hair. 

"You  oughtn't  to  lie  with  your  arms  outside  the 
covers  like  that,"  said  Althea.  "It  's  most  important 
not  to  get  chilled.  I  'm  afraid  you  don't  know  how  to 
take  caie  of  yourself."  She  smiled  a  little,  gentle  and 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  23 

assured,  though  inwardly  with  still  a  tremor;  and  she 
drew  the  clothes  about  the  invalid  who  had  relapsed 
passively  on  to  her  pillows. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  don't.  How  very  kind  of  you!"  she 
murmured  again. 

Althea  brought  a  glass  of  water  and,  selecting  her 
little  bottle,  poured  out  the  proper  number  of  drops. 
' '  You  were  feeling  ill  last  night,  weren  't  you  ? ' '  she  said, 
after  the  dose  had  been  swallowed.  "I  thought  that 
you  looked  ill." 

''Last  night?" 

"Yes,  don't  you  remember?  I  sat  next  you  in  the 
dining-room. ' ' 

"Oh  yes;  of  course,  of  course!  I  remember  now. 
You  had  this  dress  on;  I  noticed  all  the  little  silver 
tassels.  Yes,  I  've  been  feeling  wretched  for  several 
days;  I  've  done  hardly  anything — no  shopping,  no 
sight-seeing,  and  I  ought  to  be  back  in  London  to-mor 
row  ;  but  I  suppose  I  '11  have  to  stay  in  bed  for  a  week ; 
it  's  very  tiresome."  She  spoke  wearily,  yet  in  decisive 
little  sentences,  and  her  voice,  its  hardness  and  its  liquid 
intonations,  made  Althea  think  of  wet  pebbles  softly 
shaken  together. 

"You  haven't  sent  for  a  doctor?"  she  inquired,  while 
she  took  out  her  small  clinical  thermometer. 

"No,  indeed;  I  never  send  for  doctors.  Can't  afford 
'em,"  said  the  young  lady,  with  a  wan  grimace.  "Must 
I  put  that  into  my  mouth?" 

"Yes,  please;  I  must  take  your  temperature.  I  think, 
if  you  let  me  prescribe  for  you,  I  can  see  after  you  as 
well  as  a  doctor,"  Althea  assured  her.  "I  'm  used  to 
taking  care  of  people  who  are  ill.  The  friend  I  've  just 


24  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

been  staying  with  in  Venice  had  influenza  very  badly 
while  I  was  with  her." 

She  rather  hoped,  after  the  thermometer  was  removed, 
that  the  young  lady  would  ask  her  some  question  about 
Venice  and  her  present  destination ;  but,  though  so 
amiable  and  so  grateful,  she  did  not  seem  to  feel  any 
curiosity  about  the  good  Samaritan  who  thus  succoured 
her. 

Althea  found  her  patient  less  feverish  next  morning 
when  she  went  in  early  to  see  her,  and  though  she  said 
that  her  body  felt  as  though  it  were  being  beaten  with 
red-hot  hammers,  she  smiled  in  saying  it,  and  Althea 
then,  administering  her  dose,  asked  her  what  her  name 
might  be. 

It  was  Helen  Buchanan,  she  learned. 

' '  And  mine  is  Althea  Jakes.  You  are  English,  aren  't 
you?" 

"Oh  no,  I  'm  Scotch,"  said  Miss  Buchanan. 

"And  I  am  American.  Do  you  know  any  Ameri 
cans?" 

"Oh  yes,  quite  a  lot.  One  of  them  is  a  Mrs.  Harrison, 
and  lives  in  Chicago,"  said  Miss  Buchanan,  who  seemed 
in  a  more  communicative  mood.  "I  met  her  in  Nice  one 
winter;  a  very  nice,  kind  woman,  who  gives  most  sump 
tuous  parties.  Her  husband  is  a  millionaire ;  one  never 
sees  him.  Do  you  come  from  Chicago?  Do  you  know 
her?" 

Althea,  with  some  emphasis,  said  that  she  came  from 
Boston. 

"Another,"  Miss  Buchanan  pursued,  "lives  in  New 
York,  though  she  is  usually  over  here;  she  is  immensely 
rich,  too.  She  hunts  every  winter  in  England,  and  is 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  25 

great  fun  and  is  frightfully  well  up  in  everything — pic 
tures,  books,  music,  you  know:  Americans  usually  are 
well  up,  aren't  they?  She  wants  me  to  stay  with  her 
some  day  in  New  York ;  perhaps  I  shall,  if  I  can  manage 
to  afford  the  voyage.  Her  name  is  Bigham;  perhaps 
you  know  her." 

' '  No.  I  know  of  her,  though ;  she  is  very  well  known, ' ' 
said  Althea  rather  coldly;  for  Mrs.  Bigham  was  an  ex 
cessively  fashionable  and  reputedly  reckless  lady  who 
had  divorced  one  husband  and  married  another,  and 
whose  doings  filled  more  scrupulous  circles  with  indig 
nation  and  unwilling  interest. 

"Then  I  met  a  dear  little  woman  in  Oxford  once," 
said  Miss  Buchanan.  "She  was  studying  there — she 
had  come  from  a  college  in  America.  She  was  so  nice 
and  clever,  and  charming,  too;  quaint  and  full  of  fla 
vour.  She  was  going  to  teach  in  a  college  when  she 
went  back.  She  was  very  poor,  quite  different  from  the 
others.  Her  father,  she  told  me,  kept  a  shop,  but  didn  't 
get  on  at  all ;  and  her  brother,  to  whom  she  was  devoted, 
sold  harmoniums.  It  was  just  like  an  American  novel. 
Wayman  was  her  name — Miss  Carrie  Wayman ;  perhaps 
you  know  her.  I  forget  the  name  of  the  town  she  came 
from,  but  it  was  somewhere  in  the  western  part  of 
America." 

No,  Althea  said,  she  did  not  know  Miss  "Wayman,  and 
she  felt  some  little  severity  for  the  confusion  that  Miss 
Buchanan's  remarks  indicated.  With  greater  emphasis 
than  before,  she  said  that  she  did  not  know  the  West  at 
all. 

"It  must  be  rather  nice — plains  and  cowboys  and 
Rocky  Mountains,"  Miss  Buchanan  said.  "I  Ve  a 


26  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

cousin  on  a  ranch  in  Dakota,  and  I  've  often  thought 
I  'd  like  to  go  out  there  for  a  season;  he  says  the  rid 
ing  is  wonderful,  and  the  scenery  and  flowers.  Oh,  my 
wretched  head;  it  feels  as  if  it  were  stuffed  with  incan 
descent  cotton-  wool. " 

"You  must  remember  to  keep  your  arms  under  the 
covers, ' '  said  Althea,  as  Miss  Buchanan  lifted  her  hands 
and  pressed  them  to  her  brows.  ''And  let  me  plait  your 
hair  for  you ;  it  must  be  so  hot  and  uncomfortable. ' ' 

And  now  again,  looking  up  at  her  while  the  friendly 
office  was  performed,  Miss  Buchanan  said,  "How  kind 
you  are!  too  kind  for  words.  I  can't  think  what  I 
should  have  done  without  you." 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  became  easy  after  this  for  Althea  to  carry  into  effect 
all  her  beneficent  wishes.  She  sent  Amelie  in  every 
day  to  wait  on  Miss  Buchanan  and  to  arrange  her  room. 
She  brought  her  fruit  and  flowers  and  sat  with  her  in 
all  her  spare  moments,  and  in  order  to  do  this  she  a 
good  deal  neglected  the  replenishment  of  her  wardrobe. 
The  feeling  of  anxiety  that  had  oppressed  her  on  the 
evening  of  gloom  when  she  had  first  seen  her  was  trans 
formed  into  a  soft  and  delightful  perturbation.  As  the 
unknown  lady  in  black  Miss  Buchanan  had  indeed 
charmed  as  well  as  oppressed  her,  and  the  charm  grew 
while  the  oppression,  though  it  still  hovered,  was  felt 
more  as  a  sense  of  alluring  mystery.  She  had  never  in 
her  life  met  any  one  in  the  least  like  Miss  Buchanan. 
She  was  at  once  so  open  and  so  impenetrable.  She  re 
plied  to  all  questions  with  complete  unreserve,  but  she 
had  never,  with  all  her  candour,  the  air  of  making  con 
fidences.  It  hurt  Althea  a  little,  and  yet  was  part  of 
the  allurement,  to  see  that  she  was,  probably,  too  in 
different  to  be  reticent.  Lying  on  her  pillows,  a  ciga 
rette — all  too  frequently,  Althea  considered — between 
her  lips,  and  her  hair  wound  in  a  heavy  wreath  upon 
her  head,  she  would  listen  pleasantly,  and  as  pleasantly 
reply ;  and  Althea  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  because 
she  really  found  it  pleasant  to  talk  and  be  talked  to,  or 
whether,  since  she  had  nothing  better  to  do,  she  merely 

27 


28 

showed  good  manners.  Althea  was  sensitive  to  every 
shade  in  manners,  and  was  sure  that  Miss  Buchanan, 
however  great  her  tact  might  be,  did  not  find  her  a  bore ; 
yet  she  could  not  be  at  all  sure  that  she  found  her  inter 
esting,  and  this  was  disconcerting.  Sometimes  the  sus 
picion  of  it  made  her  feel  humble,  and  sometimes  it 
made  her  feel  a  little  angry,  for  she  was  not  accustomed 
to  being  found  uninteresting.  She  herself,  however,  was 
interested;  and  it  was  when  she  most  frankly  owned  to 
this,  laying  both  anger  and  humility  aside,  that  she  was 
happiest  in  the  presence  of  her  new  acquaintance.  She 
liked  to  talk  to  her,  and  she  liked  to  make  her  talk. 
From  these  conversations  she  was  soon  able  to  build  up 
a  picture  of  Miss  Buchanan's  life.  She  came  of  an  old 
Scotch  family,  and  she  had  spent  her  childhood  and 
girlhood  in  an  old  Scotch  house.  This  house,  Althea 
was  sure,  she  really  did  enjoy  talking  about.  She  de 
scribed  it  to  Althea:  the  way  the  rooms  lay,  and  the 
passages  ran,  and  the  queer  old  stairs  climbed  up  and 
down.  She  described  the  ghost  that  she  herself  had 
seen  once — her  matter-of-fact  acceptance  of  the  ghost 
startled  Althea — and  the  hills  and  moors  that  one  looked 
out  on  from  the  windows.  Led  by  Althea 's  absorbed 
inquiries,  she  drifted  on  to  detailed  reminiscence — the 
dogs  she  had  cared  for,  the  flowers  she  had  grown,  and 
the  dear  red  lacquer  mirror  that  she  had  broken.  "Papa 
did  die  that  year,"  she  added,  after  mentioning  the  in 
cident. 

"Surely  you  don't  connect  the  two  things,"  said  Al 
thea,  who  felt  some  remonstrance  necessary.  Miss  Bu 
chanan  said  no,  she  supposed  not;  it  was  silly  to  be 
superstitious;  yet  she  didn't  like  breaking  mirrors. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  29 

Her  brother  lived  in  the  house  now.  He  had  married 
some  one  she  didn  't  much  care  about,  though  she  did  not 
enlarge  on  this  dislike.  " Nigel  had  to  marry  money," 
was  all  she  said.  "He  couldn't  have  kept  the  place 
going  if  he  hadn't.  Jessie  isn't  at  all  a  bad  sort,  and 
they  get  on  very  well  and  have  three  nice  little  boys; 
but  I  don 't  much  take  to  her  nor  she  to  me,  so  that  I  'm 
not  much  there  any  more." 

'  '  And  your  mother  ? ' '  Althea  questioned,  ' '  where  does 
she  live?  Don't  you  stay  with  her  ever?"  She  had 
gathered  that  the  widowed  Mrs.  Buchanan  was  very 
pretty  and  very  selfish,  but  she  was  hardly  prepared  for 
the  frankness  with  which  Miss  Buchanan  defined  her 
own  attitude  towards  her. 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  Mamma,"  she  said;  "we  don't  get 
on  at  all.  I  'm  not  fond  of  rowdy  people,  and  Mamma 
knows  such  dreadful  bounders.  So  long  as  people  have 
plenty  of  money  and  make  things  amusing  for  her, 
she'll  put  up  with  anything." 

Althea  had  all  the  American  reverence  for  the  sancti 
ties  and  loyalties  of  the  family,  and  these  ruthless  expla 
nations  filled  her  with  uneasy  surprise.  Miss  Buchanan 
was  ruthless  about  all  her  relatives;  there  were  few  of 
them,  apparently,  that  she  cared  for  except  the  English 
cousins  with  whom  she  had  spent  many  years  of  girl 
hood,  and  the  Aunt  Grizel  who  made  a  home  for  her  in 
London.  To  her  she  alluded  with  affectionate  emphasis : 
"Oh,  Aunt  Grizel  is  very  different  from  the  rest  of 
them." 

Aunt  Grizel  was  not  well  off,  but  it  was  she  who  made 
Helen  the  little  allowance  that  enabled  her  to  go  about ; 
and  she  had  insured  her  life,  so  that  at  her  death,  when 


30  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

her  annuity  lapsed,  Helen  should  be  sure  of  the  same 
modest  sum.  "Owing  to  Aunt  Grizel  I  '11  just  not 
starve/'  said  Helen,  with  the  faint  grimace,  half  bitter, 
half  comic,  that  sometimes  made  her  strange  face  still 
stranger.  "One  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year: 
think  of  it !  Isn  't  it  damnable  ?  Yet  it  's  better  than 
nothing,  as  Aunt  Grizel  and  I  often  say  after  groaning 
together. ' ' 

Althea,  safely  niched  in  her  annual  three  thousand, 
was  indeed  horrified. 

"One  hundred  and  fifty,"  she  repeated  helplessly. 
"Do  you  mean  that  you  manage  to  dress  on  that  now?" 

"Dress  on  it,  my  dear!  I  pay  all  my  travelling  ex 
penses,  my  cabs,  my  stamps,  my  Christmas  presents — 
everything  out  of  it,  as  well  as  buy  my  clothes.  And  it 
will  have  to  pay  for  my  rent  and  food  besides,  when 
Aunt  Grizel  dies — when  I  'm  not  being  taken  in  some 
where.  Of  course,  she  still  counts  on  my  marrying, 
poor  dear." 

' '  Oh,  but,  of  course  you  will  marry, ' '  said  Althea,  with 
conviction. 

Miss  Buchanan,  who  was  getting  much  better,  was 
propped  high  on  her  pillows  to-day,  and  was  attired  in  a 
most  becoming  flow  of  lace  and  silk.  Nothing  less  ex 
posed  to  the  gross  chances  of  the  world  could  be  im 
agined.  She  did  not  turn  her  eyes  on  her  companion 
as  the  confident  assertion  was  made,  and  she  kept  silence 
for  a  moment.  Then  she  answered  placidly: 

"Of  course,  if  I  'm  to  live — and  not  merely  exist — I 
must  try  to,  I  suppose." 

Althea  was  taken  aback  and  pained  by  the  wording 
of  this  speech.  Her  national  susceptibilities  were  again 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  31 

wounded  by  the  implication  that  a  rare  and  beautiful 
woman — for  so  she  termed  Helen  Buchanan — might 
be  forced,  not  only  to  hope  for  marriage,  but  to  seek  it ; 
the  implication  that  urgency  lay  rather  in  the  woman's 
state  than  in  the  man's.  She  had  all  the  romantic 
American  confidence  in  the  power  of  the  rare  and  beau 
tiful  woman  to  marry  when  and  whom  she  chose. 

"I  am  sure  you  need  never  try,"  she  said  with 
warmth.  "  I  'm  sure  you  have  dozens  of  delightful  peo 
ple  in  love  with  you." 

Miss  Buchanan  turned  her  eyes  on  her  and  laughed  as 
though  she  found  this  idea  amusing.  "Why,  in 
heaven's  name,  should  I  have  dozens  of  delightful  peo 
ple  in  love  with  me?" 

"You  are  so  lovely,  so  charming,  so  distinguished." 

"Am  I?  Thanks,  my  dear.  I  'm  afraid  you  see 
things  en  couleur  de  rose."  And,  still  smiling,  her  eyes 
dwelling  on  Althea  with  their  indifferent  kindness,  she 
went  on:  "Have  you  delightful  dozens  in  love  with 
you?" 

Althea  did  not  desert  her  guns.  She  felt  that  the  very 
honour  of  their  sex — her's  and  Helen's — was  on  trial 
in  her  person.  She  might  not  be  as  lovely  as  her  friend 
— though  she  might  be ;  that  wasn  't  a  matter  for  her  to 
inquire  into;  but  as  woman — as  well-bred,  highly  edu 
cated,  refined  and  gentle  woman — she,  too,  was  chooser, 
and  not  seeker. 

"Only  one  delightful  person  is  in  love  with  me  at  this 
moment,  I  'm  sorry  to  say, ' '  she  answered,  smiling  back ; 
"but  I  've  had  very  nearly  my  proper  share  in  the  past." 
It  had  been  necessary  thus  to  deck  poor  Franklin  out  if 
her  standpoint  were  to  be  maintained;  and,  indeed, 


32  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

could  not  one  deem  him  delightful,  in  some  senses — in 
moral  senses; — he  surely  was  delightfully  good.  The 
little  effort  to  see  dear  Franklin 's  goodness  as  delightful 
rather  discomposed  her,  and  as  Miss  Buchanan  asked 
no  further  question  as  to  the  one  delightful  suitor,  the 
little  confusion  mounted  to  her  eyes  and  cheeks.  She 
wondered  if  she  had  spoken  tastelessly,  and  hastened 
away  from  this  personal  aspect  of  the  question. 

"You  don't  really  mean — I  'm  sure  you  don't  mean 
that  you  would  marry  just  for  money. ' ' 

Miss  Buchanan  kept  her  ambiguous  eyes  half  merrily, 
half  pensively  upon  her.  "Of  course,  if  he  were  very 
nice.  I  wouldn't  marry  a  man  who  wasn't  nice  for 
money." 

' '  Surely  you  couldn  't  marry  a  man  unless  you  were  in 
love  with  him?" 

"Certainly  I  could.  Money  lasts,  and  love  so  often 
doesn't."  Helen  continued  to  smile  as  she  spoke. 

There  was  now  a  tremor  of  pain  in  Althea's  protest. 
"Dear  Miss  Buchanan,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  speak 
like  that.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  any  one  so  lovely 
doing  anything  so  sordid,  so  miserable,  as  making  a 
manage  de  convenance."  Tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

Miss  Buchanan  was  again  silent  for  a  moment,  and  it 
was  now  her  turn  to  look  slightly  confused.  "It  's  very 
nice  of  you  to  mind, ' '  she  said ;  and  she  added,  as  if  to 
help  Althea  not  to  mind.  ' '  But,  you  see,  I  am  sordid ; 
I  am  miserable." 

"Sordid?  Miserable?  Do  you  mean  unhappy?" 
Poor  Althea  gazed,  full  of  her  most  genuine  distress. 

' '  Oh  no ;  I  mean  in  your  sense.     I  'm  a  poor  creature, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  33 

quite  ordinary  and  grubby;  that  's  all,"  said  Miss  Bu 
chanan. 

They  said  nothing  more  of  it  then,  beyond  Althea 's 
murmur  of  now  inarticulate  protest;  but  the  episode 
probably  remained  in  Miss  Buchanan's  memory  as  some 
thing  rather  puzzling  as  well  as  rather  pitiful,  this 
demonstration  of  a  feeling  so  entirely  unexpected  that 
she  had  not  known  what  to  do  with  it. 

If,  in  these  graver  matters,  she  distressed  Althea,  in 
lesser  ones  she  was  continually,  if  not  distressing  her,  at 
all  events  calling  upon  her,  in  complete  unconsciousness, 
for  readjustments  of  focus  that  were  sometimes,  in  their 
lesser  way,  painful  too.  When  she  asserted  that  she  was 
not  musical,  Althea  almost  suspected  her  of  saying  it 
in  order  to  evade  her  own  descriptions  of  experiences  at 
Bayreuth.  Pleasantly  as  she  might  listen,  it  was  some 
times,  Althea  had  discovered,  with  a  restive  air  masked 
by  a  pervasive  vagueness ;  this  vagueness  usually  drifted 
over  her  when  Althea  described  experiences  of  an  in 
tellectual  or  aesthetic  nature.  It  could  be  no  question  of 
evasion,  however,  when,  in  answer  to  a  question  of  Al 
thea 's,  she  said  that  she  hated  Paris.  Since  girlhood 
Althea  had  accepted  Paris  as  the  final  stage  in  a  civilised 
being's  education:  the  Theatre  Frangais,  the  lectures  at 
the  Sorbonne,  the  Louvre  and  the  Cluny,  and,  for  a 
later  age,  Anatole  France — it  seemed  almost  barbarous 
to  say  that  one  hated  the  splendid  city  that  clothed,  as 
did  no  other  place  in  the  world,  one's  body  and  one's 
mind.  "How  can  you  hate  it?"  she  inquired.  "It 
means  so  much  that  is  intellectual,  so  much  that  is 
beautiful." 

3 


34  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Miss  Buchanan.  "I  do  like  to 
look  at  it  sometimes;  the  spaces  and  colour  are  so  nice." 

' '  The  spaces,  and  what  's  in  them,  surely.  What  is  it 
that  you  don 't  like  1  The  French  haven 't  our  standards 
of  morality,  of  course,  but  don't  you  think  it  's  rather 
narrow  to  judge  them  by  our  standards?" 

Althea  was  pleased  to  set  forth  thus  clearly  her  own 
liberality  of  standard.  She  sometimes  suspected  Miss 
Buchanan  of  thinking  her  naive.  But  Miss  Buchanan 
now  looked  a  little  puzzled,  as  if  it  were  not  this  at  all 
that  she  had  meant,  and  said  presently  that  perhaps  it 
was  the  women's  faces — the  well-dressed  women.  ''I 
don't  mind  the  poor  ones  so  much;  they  often  look  too 
sharp,  but  they  often  look  kind  and  frightfully  tired. 
It  is  the  well-dressed  ones  I  can 't  put  up  with.  And  the 
men  are  even  more  horrid.  I  always  want  to  spend  a 
week  in  walking  over  the  moors  when  I  Ve  been  here. 
It  leaves  a  hot  taste  in  my  mouth,  like  some  horrid 
liqueur. ' ' 

"But  the  beauty — the  intelligence,"  Althea  urged. 
"Surely  you  are  a  little  intolerant,  to  see  only  people's 
faces  in  Paris.  Think  of  the  Salon  Carree  and  the 
Cluny;  they  take  away  the  taste  of  the  liqueur.  How 
can  one  have  enough  of  them?" 

Miss  Buchanan  again  demurred.  "Oh,  I  think  I  can 
have  enough  of  them." 

"But  you  care  for  pictures,  for  beautiful  things,"  said 
Althea,  half  vexed  and  half  disturbed.  But  Miss  Bu 
chanan  said  that  she  liked  having  them  about  her,  not 
having  to  go  and  look  at  them.  "It  is  so  stuffy  in 
museums,  too;  they  always  give  me  a  headache.  How- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  35 

ever,  I  don't  believe  I  really  do  care  about  pictures. 
You  see,  altogether  I  've  had  no  education." 

Her  education,  indeed,  contrasted  with  Althea's  well- 
ordered  and  elaborate  progression,  had  been  lamentable 
— a  mere  succession  of  incompetent  governesses.  Yet, 
on  pressing  her  researches,  Althea,  though  finding  al 
most  unbelievable  voids,  felt,  more  than  anything  else, 
tastes  sharp  and  fine  that  seemed  to  cut  into  her  own 
tastes  and  show  her  suddenly  that  she  did  not  really  like 
\vhat  she  had  thought  she  liked,  or  that  she  liked  what 
she  had  hardly  before  been  aware  of.  All  that  Helen 
could  be  brought  to  define  was  that  she  liked  looking  at 
things  in  the  country :  at  birds,  clouds,  and  flowers ;  but 
though  striking  Althea  as  a  creature  strangely  un 
touched  and  unmoulded,  she  struck  her  yet  more 
strongly  as  beautifully  definite.  She  marvelled  at  her 
indifference  to  her  own  shortcomings,  and  she  marvelled 
at  the  strength  of  personality  that  could  so  dispense  with 
other  people's  furnishings. 

Among  the  things  that  Helen  made  her  see,  freshly 
and  perturbingly,  was  the  sheaf  of  friends  in  England 
of  whom  she  had  thought  with  such  security  when  Miss 
Robinson  had  spoken  of  the  London  salon. 

Althea  had  been  trained  in  a  school  of  severe  social 
caution.  Social  caution  was  personified  to  her  in  her 
memory  of  her  mother — a  slender,  black-garbed  lady, 
with  parted  grey  hair,  neatly  waved  along  hertorow,  and 
a  tortoiseshell  lorgnette  that  she  used  to  raise,  mildly  yet 
alarmingly,  at  foreign  tables  d'hotes,  for  an  appraising 
survey  of  the  company.  The  memory  of  this  lorgnette 
operated  with  Althea  as  a  sort  of  social  standard;  it 


36 

typified  delicacy,  dignity,  deliberation,  a  scrupulous  re 
gard  for  the  claims  of  heredity,  and  a  scrupulous  avoid 
ance  of  uncertain  or  all  too  certain  types.  Althea  felt 
that  she  had  carried  on  the  tradition  worthily.  The 
lorgnette  would  have  passed  all  her  more  recent  friends 
— those  made  with  only  its  inspiration  as  a  guide.  She 
was  as  careful  as  her  mother  as  to  whom  she  admitted 
to  her  acquaintanceship,  eschewing  in  particular  those  of 
her  compatriots  whose  accents  or  demeanour  betrayed 
them  to  her  trained  discrimination  as  outside  the  radius 
of  acceptance.  But  Althea 's  kindness  of  heart  was  even 
deeper  than  her  caution,  and  much  as  she  dreaded  be 
coming  involved  with  the  wrong  sort  of  people,  she 
dreaded  even  more  hurting  anybody's  feelings,  with  the 
result  that  once  or  twice  she  had  made  mistakes,  and 
had  had,  under  the  direction  of  Lady  Blair,  to  withdraw 
in  a  manner  as  painful  to  her  feelings  as  to  her  pride. 
"Oh  no,  my  dear,"  Lady  Blair  had  said  of  some  English 
acquaintances  whom  Althea  had  met  in  Rome,  and  who 
had  asked  her  to  come  and  see  them  in  England. 
"Quite  impossible;  most  worthy  people,  I  am  sure,  and 
no  doubt  the  daughter  took  honours  at  Girton — the  mid 
dle  classes  are  highly  educated  nowadays;  but  one 
doesn't  know  that  sort  of  people." 

Lady  Blair  was  the  widow  of  a  judge,  and,  in  her 
large  velvet  drawing-room,  a  thick  fog  outside  and  a 
number  of  elderly  legal  ladies  drinking  tea  about  her, 
Althea  had  always  felt  herself  to  be  in  the  very  heart 
of  British  social  safety.  Lady  Blair  was  an  old  friend 
of  her  mother's,  and,  with  Miss  Buckston,  was  her  near 
est  English  friend.  She  also  felt  safe  on  the  lawn  under 
the  mulberry  tree  at  Grimshaw  Eectory,  and  when 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  37 

ensconced  for  her  long  visit  in  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Col 
ling  's  little  house  in  Devonshire,  where  hydrangeas  grew 
against  a  blue  background  of  sea,  and  a  small  white 
yacht  rocked  in  the  bay  at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 

It  was  therefore  with  some  perplexity  that,  here  too, 
she  brought  from  her  interviews  with  Helen  an  impres 
sion  of  new  standards.  They  were  not  drastic  and 
relegating,  like  those  of  Lady  Blair's;  they  did  not 
make  her  feel  unsafe  as  Lady  Blair's  had  done;  they 
merely  made  her  feel  that  her  world  was  very  narrow 
and  she  herself  rather  ingenuous. 

Helen  herself  seemed  unaware  of  standards,  and  had 
certainly  never  experienced  any  of  Althea's  anxieties. 
She  had  always  been  safe,  partly,  Althea  had  perceived, 
because  she  had  been  born  safe,  but,  in  the  main,  because 
she  was  quite  indifferent  to  safety.  And  with  this  in 
difference  and  this  security  went  the  further  fact  that 
she  had,  probably,  never  been  ingenuous.  With  all  her 
admiration,  her  affection  for  her  new  friend,  this  sense 
of  the  change  that  she  was  working  in  her  life  sometimes 
made  Althea  a  little  afraid  of  her,  and  sometimes  a  little 
indignant.  She,  herself,  was  perfectly  safe  in  America, 
and  when  she  felt  indignant  she  asked  herself  what 
Helen  Buchanan  would  have  done  had  she  been  turned 
into  a  strange  continent  with  hardly  any  other  guides 
than  the  memory  of  a  lorgnette  and  a  Baedeker. 

It  was  when  she  was  bound  to  answer  this  question, 
and  to  recognise  that  in  such  circumstances  Miss  Bu 
chanan  would  have  gone  her  way,  entirely  unperturbed, 
and  entirely  sure  of  her  own  preferences,  that  Althea 
felt  afraid  of  her.  In  all  circumstances,  she  more  and 
more  clearly  saw  it,  Miss  Buchanan  would  impose  her 


38  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

own  standards,  and  be  oppressed  or  enlightened  by  none. 
Althea  had  always  thought  of  herself  as  very  calm  and 
strong ;  it  was  as  calm  and  strong  that  Franklin  Winslow 
Kane  so  worshipped  her;  but  when  she  talked  to  Miss 
Buchanan  she  had  sharp  shoots  of  suspicion  that  she 
was,  in  reality,  weak  and  wavering. 

Althea 's  accounts  of  her  friends  in  England  seemed  to 
interest  Miss  Buchanan  even  less  than  her  accounts  of 
Bayreuth.  She  had  met  Miss  Buckston,  but  had  only  a 
vague  and,  evidently,  not  a  pleasant  impression  of  her. 
Lady  Blair  she  had  never  heard  of,  nor  the  inmates  of 
Grimshaw  Eectory.  The  Collings  were  also  blanks,  ex 
cept  that  Mrs.  Colling  had  an  uncle,  an  old  Lord  Taun- 
ton,  and  when  Althea  put  forward  this  identifying  fact, 
Helen  said  that  she  knew  him  and  liked  him  very  much. 

"I  suppose  you  know  a  great  many  people,"  said 
Althea. 

Yes,  Miss  Buchanan  replied,  she  supposed  she  did. 
' '  Too  many,  sometimes.  One  gets  sick  of  them,  don 't  you 
think?  But  perhaps  your  people  are  more  interesting 
than  mine;  you  travel  so  much,  and  seem  to  know  such 
heaps  of  them  all  over  the  world." 

But  Althea,  from  these  interviews,  took  a  growing 
impression  that  though  Miss  Buchanan  might  be  sick  of 
her  own  people,  she  would  be  far  more  sick  of  hers. 


CHAPTER  V 

MISS  BUCHANAN  was  well  on  the  way  to  complete 
recovery,  was  able  to  have  tea  every  afternoon 
with  Althea,  and  to  be  taken  for  long  drives  in  the  Bois, 
when  Aunt  Julia  and  the  girls  arrived  at  the  Hotel 
Talleyrand. 

Mrs.  Pepperell  was  a  sister  of  Althea 's  mother,  and 
lived  soberly  and  solidly  in  New  York,  disapproving  as 
much  of  millionaires  and  their  manners  as  of  expatriated 
Americans.  She  was  large  and  dressed  with  immaculate 
precision  and  simplicity,  and  had  it  not  been  for  a  home 
spun  quality  of  mingled  benevolence  and  shrewdness,  she 
might  have  passed  as  stately.  But  Mrs.  Pepperell  had 
no  wish  to  appear  stately,  and  was  rather  intolerant  of 
the  pretension  in  others.  Her  sharp  tongue  had  in 
dulged  itself  in  a  good  many  sallies  on  this  score  at  her 
sister  Bessie's  expense;  Bessie  being  the  lady  of  the 
lorgnette,  Althea 's  deceased  mother. 

Althea,  remembering  that  dear  mother  so  well,  all 
dignified  elegance  as  she  had  been — too  dignified,  too 
elegant,  perhaps,  to  be  either  so  shrewd  or  so  benevolent 
as  her  sister — always  thought  of  Aunt  Julia  as  rather 
commonplace  in  comparison.  Yet,  as  she  followed  in 
her  wake  on  the  evening  of  her  arrival,  she  felt  that 
Aunt  Julia  was  obviously  and  eminently  "nice."  The 
one  old-fashioned  diamond  ornament  at  her  throat,  the 

S9 


40  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ruffles  at  her  wrist,  the  gloss  of  her  silver-brown  hair, 
reminded  her  of  her  own  mother's  preferences. 

The  girls  were  "nice,"  too,  as  far  as  their  appearance 
and  breeding  went,  but  Althea  found  their  manners  very 
bad.  They  were  not  strident  and  they  were  not  arro 
gant,  but  so  much  noisiness  and  so  much  innocent  as 
surance  might,  to  unsympathetic  eyes,  seem  so.  They 
were  handsome  girls,  fresh-skinned,  athletic,  tall  and 
slender.  They  wore  beautifully  simple  white  lawn 
dresses,  and  their  shining  fair  hair  was  brushed  off  their 
foreheads  and  tied  at  the  back  with  black  bows  in  a  very 
becoming  fashion,  though  Althea  thought  the  bows  too 
large  and  the  fashion  too  obviously  local. 

Helen  was  in  her  old  place  that  night,  and  she  smiled 
at  Althea  as  she  and  her  party  took  their  places  at  a 
table  larger  and  at  a  little  distance.  She  was  to  come  in 
for  coffee  after  dinner,  so  that  Althea  adjourned  intro 
ductions.  Aunt  Julia  looked  sharply  and  appraisingly 
at  the  black  figure,  and  the  girls  did  not  look  at  all. 
They  were  filled  with  young  delight  and  excitement  at 
the  prospect  of  a  three  weeks'  romp  in  Paris,  among 
dressmakers,  teaparties,  and  the  opera.  "And  Herbert 
Vaughan  is  here.  I  've  just  had  a  letter  from  him.  for 
warded  from  London,"  Dorothy  announced,  to  which 
Mildred,  with  glad  emphasis,  cried  "Bully!" 

Althea  sighed,  crumbled  her  bread,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  resignedly. 

"You  mustn't  talk  slang  before  Cousin  Althea,"  said 
Dorothy. 

' '  What  Cousin  Althea  needs  is  slang, ' '  said  Mildred. 

"I  shan't  lack  it  with  you,  shall  I,  Mildred?"  Althea 
returned,  with  a  rather  chilly  smile.  She  knew  that 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  41 

Dorothy  and  Mildred  considered  her,  as  they  would  have 
put  it,  "A  back  number";  they  liked  to  draw  her  out 
and  to  shock  her.  She  wanted  to  make  it  clear  that  she 
wasn't  shocked,  but  that  she  was  wearied.  At  the  same 
time  it  was  true  that  Mildred  and  Dorothy  made  her 
uncomfortable  in  subtler  ways ;  she  was,  perhaps,  a  little 
afraid  of  them,  too.  They,  too,  imposed  their  own 
standards,  and  were  oppressed  and  enlightened  by  none. 

Aunt  Julia  smiled  indulgently  at  her  children,  and 
asked  Althea  if  she  did  not  think  that  they  were  look 
ing  very  well.  They  certainly  were,  and  Althea  had 
to  own  it.  "But  don't  let  them  overdo  their  athletics, 
Aunt  Julia, ' '  she  said.  ' '  It  is  such  a  pity  when  girls  get 
brawny. ' ' 

' '  I  'm  brawny ;  feel  my  muscle, ' '  said  Mildred,  stretch 
ing  a  hard  young  arm  across  the  table.  Althea  shook 
her  head.  She  did  not  like  being  made  conspicuous,  and 
already  the  girls'  loud  voices  had  drawn  attention;  the 
French  family  were  all  staring. 

"Who  is  the  lady  in  black,  Althea?"  Mrs.  Pepperell 
asked.  "A  friend  of  yours?" 

"Yes,  a  most  charming  friend,"  said  Althea.  "Helen 
Buchanan  is  her  name ;  she  is  Scotch — a  very  old  family 
— and  she  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  people  I  've  ever 
known.  You  will  meet  her  after  dinner.  She  is  coming 
in  to  spend  the  evening." 

"Where  did  you  meet  her?  How  long  have  you 
known  her?"  asked  Aunt  Julia,  evidently  unimpressed. 

Althea  said  that  she  had  met  her  here,  but  that  they 
had  mutual  friends,  thinking  of  Miss  Buckston  in  what 
she  felt  to  be  an  emergency. 

Aunt  Julia,  with  her  air  of  general  scepticism  as  to 


42  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

what  she  could  find  so  worth  while  in  Europe,  often  made 
her  embark  on  definitions  and  declarations.  She  could 
certainly  tolerate  no  uncertainty  on  the  subject  of 
Helen's  worth. 

"Very  odd  looking,"  said  Aunt  Julia,  while  the  girls 
glanced  round  indifferently  at  the  subject  of  discus 
sion. 

"And  peculiarly  distinguished  looking,"  said  Althea. 
"She  makes  most  people  look  so  half-baked  and  insig 
nificant." 

"I  think  it  a  rather  sinister  face,"  said  Aunt  Julia. 
"And  how  she  slouches!  Sit  up,  Mildred.  I  don't 
want  you  to  catch  European  tricks." 

But,  after  dinner,  Althea  felt  that  Helen  made  her  im 
pression.  She  was  still  wan  and  weak;  she  said  very 
little,  though  she  smiled  very  pleasantly,  and  she  sat — 
as  Aunt  Julia  had  said,  "slouched,"  yet  so  gracefully — 
in  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  The  charm  worked.  The  girls 
felt  it,  Aunt  Julia  felt  it,  though  Aunt  Julia  held  aloof 
from  it.  Althea  saw  that  Aunt  Julia,  most  certainly, 
did  not  interest  Helen,  but  the  girls  amused  her;  she 
liked  them.  They  sat  near  her  and  made  her  laugh  by 
their  accounts  of  their  journey,  the  funny  people  on  the 
steamer,  their  plans  for  the  summer,  and  life  in  Amer 
ica,  as  they  lived  it.  Dorothy  assured  her  that  she 
didn't  know  what  fun  was  till  she  came  to  America,  and 
Mildred  cried:  "Oh,  do  come!  We  '11  give  you  the 
time  of  your  life ! "  Helen  declared  that  she  hoped  some 
day  to  experience  this  climax. 

Before  going  to  bed,  and  attired  in  her  dressing-gown, 
Althea  went  to  Helen's  room  to  ask  her  how  she  felt, 
but  also  to  see  what  impression  her  relatives  had  made. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  43 

Helen  was  languidly  brushing  her  hair,  and  Althea  took 
the  brush  from  her  and  brushed  it  for  her. 

"Isn't  it  lamentable,"  she  said,  "that  Aunt  Julia,  who 
is  full  of  a  certain  sort  of  wise  perception  about  other 
things,  doesn  't  seem  to  see  at  all  how  bad  the  children 's 
manners  are.  She  lets  them  monopolise  everybody's  at 
tention  with  the  utmost  complacency." 

Helen,  while  her  hair  was  being  brushed,  put  out  her 
hand  for  her  watch  and  was  winding  it.  "Have  they 
bad  manners?"  she  said.  "But  they  are  nice  girls." 

"Yes,  they  are  nice.  But  surely  you  don't  like  their 
slang?" 

Helen  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  it.  "More  fun 
than  a  goat,"  she  quoted.  "Why  shouldn't  they  talk 
slang?" 

"Dear  Helen," — they  had  come  quite  happily  to 
Christian  names — "surely  you  care  for  keeping  the 
language  pure.  Surely  you  think  it  regrettable  that  the 
younger  generation  should  defile  and  mangle  it  like 
that." 

But  Helen  only  laughed,  and  confessed  that  she  really 
didn't  care  what  happened  to  the  language.  "There  '11 
always  be  plenty  of  people  to  talk  it  too  well,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Pepperell,  on  her  side,  had  her  verdict,  and  she 
gave  it  some  days  later  when  she  and  her  niece  were 
driving  to  the  dressmaker's. 

"She  is  a  very  nice  girl,  Miss  Buchanan,  and  clever, 
too,  in  her  quiet  English  way,  though  startlingly  igno 
rant.  Dorothy  actually  told  me  that  she  had  never  read 
any  Browning,  and  thought  that  Sophocles  was 
Diogenes,  and  lived  in  a  tub.  But  frankly,  Althea,  I 
can't  say  that  I  take  to  her  very  much." 


44  FBANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Aunt  Julia,  often  irritating  to  Althea,  was  never  more 
so  than  when,  as  now,  she  assumed  that  her  verdicts  and 
opinions  were  of  importance  to  her  niece.  Althea 
shrank  from  open  combat  with  anybody,  yet  she  could, 
under  cover  of  gentle  candour,  plant  her  shafts.  She 
planted  one  now  in  answering :  "I  don 't  think  that  you 
would,  either  of  you,  take  to  one  another.  Helen's 
flavour  is  rather  recondite." 

"Recondite,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Julia,  who  never 
pretended  not  to  know  when  a  shaft  had  been  planted. 
"I  think,  every  day  mere  de  famille  as  I  am,  that  I  am 
quite  capable  of  appreciating  the  recondite.  Miss 
Buchanan's  appearance  is  striking,  and  she  is  an  in 
dependent  creature;  but,  essentially,  she  is  the  most 
commonplace  type  of  English  girl — well-bred,  poor,  idle, 
uneducated,  and  with  no  object  in  life  except  to  amuse 
herself  and  find  a  husband  with  money.  And  under 
that  air  of  sleepy  indifference  she  has  a  very  sharp  eye 
to  the  main  chance,  you  may  take  my  word  for  it. ' ' 

Althea  was  very  angry,  the  more  so  for  the  distorted 
truth  this  judgment  conveyed.  "I  'm  afraid  I 
shouldn't  take  your  word  on  any  matter  concerning  my 
friend,"  she  returned;  "and  I  think,  Aunt  Julia,  that 
you  forget  that  it  is  my  friend  you  are  speaking  of." 

"My  dear,  don't  lose  your  temper.  I  only  say  it  to 
put  you  on  your  guard.  You  are  so  given  to  idealisa 
tion,  and  you  may  find  yourself  disappointed  if  you 
trust  to  depths  that  are  not  there.  As  to  friendship, 
don't  forget  that  she  is,  as  yet,  the  merest  acquaintance." 

' '  One  may  feel  nearer  some  people  in  a  week  than  to 
others  after  years. ' ' 

"As  to  being  near  in  a  week — she  doesn't  feel  near 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  45 

you;  that  is  all  I  mean.  Don't  cast  your  pearls  too 
lavishly. ' ' 

Althea  made  no  reply,  but  under  her  air  of  unruffled 
calm,  Aunt  Julia's  shaft  rankled. 

She  found  herself  that  afternoon,  when  she  and  Helen 
were  alone  at  tea,  sounding  her,  probing  her,  for  reassur 
ing  symptoms  of  warmth  or  affection.  "I  so  hope  that 
we  may  keep  really  in  touch  with  one  another, ' '  she  said. 
"I  couldn't  bear  not  to  keep  in  touch  with  you,  Helen." 

Helen  looked  at  her  with  the  look,  vague,  kind,  and 
a  little  puzzled,  that  seemed  to  plant  Aunt  Julia's  shaft 
anew.  ''Keep  in  touch,"  she  repeated.  "Of  course. 
You  '11  be  coming  to  England  some  day,  and  then  you  '11 
be  sure  to  look  me  up,  won't  you?" 

' '  But,  until  I  do  come,  we  will  write  ?  You  will  write 
to  me  a  great  deal?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  do  so  hate  writing.  I  never  have 
anything  to  say  in  a  letter.  Let  us  exchange  post-cards, 
when  our  doings  require  it." 

"Post-cards!"  Althea  could  not  repress  a  disconso 
late  note.  "How  can  I  tell  from  post-cards  what  you 
are  thinking  and  feeling?" 

"You  may  always  take  it  for  granted  that  I  'm  doing 
very  little  of  either,"  said  Helen,  smiling. 

Althea  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  dis 
tress  apparent  in  voice  and  face,  she  said:  "I  can't 
bear  you  to  say  that." 

Helen  still  smiled,  but  she  was  evidently  at  a  loss. 
She  added  some  milk  to  her  tea  and  took  a  slice  of  bread 
and  butter  before  saying,  more  kindly,  yet  more  lightly 
than  before:  "You  mustn't  judge  me  by  yourself. 
I  'm  not  a  bit  thoughtful,  you  know,  or  warm-hearted 


46  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

and  intellectual,  like  you.  I  just  rub  along.  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  not  find  it  worth  while  keeping  in  touch  with 
me." 

"It 's  merely  that  I  care  for  you  very  much,"  said 
Althea,  in  a  slightly  quivering  voice.  "And  I  can't  bear 
to  think  that  I  am  nothing  to  you." 

There  was  again  a  little  pause  in  which,  because  her 
eyes  had  suddenly  filled  with  tears,  Althea  looked  down 
and  could  not  see  her  friend.  Helen's  voice,  when  she 
spoke,  showed  her  that  she  was  pained  and  discon 
certed.  "You  make  me  feel  like  such  a  clumsy  brute, 
when  you  say  things  like  that,"  she  said.  "You  are  so 
kind,  and  I  am  so  selfish  and  self-centred.  But  of 
course  I  care  for  you  too." 

' '  Do  you  really  ? ' '  said  Althea,  who,  even  if  she  would, 
could  not  have  retained  the  appearance  of  lightness  and 
independence.  "You  really  feel  me  as  a  friend,  a  true 
friend?" 

"If  you  really  think  me  worth  your  while,  of  course. 
I  don't  see  how  you  can — an  ill-tempered,  ignorant,  un 
interesting  woman,  whom  you  Ve  run  across  in  a  hotel 
and  been  good  to." 

' '  I  don 't  think  of  you  like  that,  as  you  know.  I  think 
you  a  strangely  lovely  and  strangely  interesting  person. 
From  the  first  moment  I  saw  you  you  appealed  to  me. 
I  felt  that  you  needed  something — love  and  sympathy, 
perhaps.  The  fact  that  it  's  been  a  sort  of  chance — our 
meeting — makes  it  all  the  sweeter  to  me." 

Again  Helen  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  again 
Althea,  sitting  with  downcast  eyes,  knew  that,  though 
touched,  she  was  uncomfortable.  "You  are  too  nice  and 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  47 

kind  for  words,"  she  then  said.     "I  can't  tell  you  how 
kind  I  think  it  of  you." 

"Then  we  are  friends?  You  do  feel  me  as  a  friend 
who  will  always  be  interested  and  always  care?" 

"Yes,  indeed;  and  I  do  so  thank  you." 

Althea  put  out  her  hand,  and  Helen  gave  her  hers, 
saying,  "You  are  a  dear,"  and  adding,  as  though  to  take 
refuge  from  her  own  discomposure,  "much  too  dear  for 
the  likes  of  me." 

The  bond  was  thus  sealed,  yet  Aunt  Julia's  shaft  still 
stuck.  It  was  she  who  had  felt  near,  and  who  had 
drawn  Helen  near.  Helen,  probably,  would  never  have 
thought  of  keeping  in  touch.  She  was  Helen's  friend 
because  she  had  appealed  for  friendship,  and  because 
Helen  thought  her  a  dear.  The  only  comfort  was  to 
know  that  Helen's  humility  was  real.  She  might  have 
offered  her  friendship  could  she  have  realised  that  it 
was  of  value  to  anybody. 

It  was  a  few  evenings  after  this,  and  perhaps  as  a 
result  of  their  talk,  that,  as  they  sat  in  Althea 's  room 
over  coffee,  Helen  said :  ' '  Why  don 't  you  come  to  Eng 
land  this  summer,  Althea?" 

Aunt  Julia  had  proposed  that  Althea  should  go  on 
to  Bayreuth  with  her  and  the  girls,  and  Althea  was 
turning  over  the  plan,  thinking  perhaps  she  had  had 
enough  of  Bayreuth,  so  that  Helen's  suggestion,  espe 
cially  as  it  was  made  in  Aunt  Julia's  presence,  was  a 
welcome  one.  "Perhaps  I  will,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
be  there?" 

"I  '11  be  in  London,  with  Aunt  Grizel,  until  the  middle 
of  July;  after  that,  in  the  country  till  winter.  You 


48  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ought  to  take  a  house  in  the  country  and  let  me  come 
to  stay  with  you,"  said  Helen,  smiling. 

"Will  you  pay  me  a  long  visit?"  Althea  smiled  back. 

"As  long  as  you  '11  ask  me  for." 

"Well,  you  are  asked  for  as  long  as  you  will  stay. 
Where  shall  I  get  a  house?  There  are  some  nice  ones 
near  Miss  Buckston's." 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  be  too  near  Miss  Buckston,"  said 
Helen,  laughing. 

"But  surely,  Althea,  you  won't  give  up  Bayreuth," 
Aunt  Julia  interposed.  "It  is  going  to  be  specially  fine 
this  year.  And  then  you  know  so  few  people  in  Eng 
land,  you  will  be  very  lonely.  Nothing  is  more  lonely 
than  the  English  country  when  you  know  nobody." 

' '  Helen  is  a  host  in  herself, ' '  said  Althea ;  and  though 
Helen  did  not  realise  the  full  force  of  the  compliment, 
it  was  more  than  satisfactory  to  have  her  acquiesce  with : 
' '  Oh,  as  to  people,  I  can  bring  you  heaps  of  them,  if  you 
want  them." 

"It  is  a  lovely  idea,"  said  Althea;  "and  if  I  must 
miss  Bayreuth,  Aunt  Julia,  I  needn't  miss  you  and  the 
girls.  You  will  have  to  come  and  stay  with  me.  Do 
you  know  of  a  nice  house,  Helen,  in  pretty  country,  and 
not  too  near  Miss  Buckston?"  It  was  rather  a  shame 
of  her,  she  felt,  this  proviso,  but  indeed  she  had  never 
found  Miss  Buckston  endearing,  and  since  knowing 
Helen  she  had  seen  more  clearly  than  before  that  she 
was  in  many  ways  oppressive. 

Helen  was  reflecting.  "I  do  know  of  a  house,"  she 
said,  "in  a  very  nice  country,  too.  You  might  have  a 
look  at  it.  It  's  where  I  used  to  go,  as  a  girl,  you  know, 
and  stay  with  my  cousins,  the  Digbys." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  49 

"That  would  be  perfect,  Helen." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  you  would  find  it  perfect. 
It  is  a  plain  stone  house,  with  a  big,  dilapidated  garden, 
nice  trees  and  lawns,  miles  from  everything,  and  with 
old-fashioned,  shabby  furniture.  Since  Gerald  came 
into  the  place,  he's  not  been  able  to  keep  it  up,  and  he 
has  to  let  it.  He  hasn't  been  able  to  let  it  for  the  last 
year  or  so,  and  would  be  glad  of  the  chance.  If  you 
like  the  place  you  '11  only  have  to  say  the  word." 

"I  know  I  shall  like  it.     Don't  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  I  love  it;  but  that  's  a  different  matter.  It  is 
more  of  a  home  to  me  than  any  place  in  the  world. ' ' 

"I  consider  it  settled.     I  don't  need  to  see  it." 

"No;  it  certainly  isn't  settled,"  Helen  replied,  with 
her  pleasant  decisiveness.  "You  certainly  shan't  take 
it  till  you  see  it.  I  will  write  to  Gerald  and  tell  him 
that  no  one  else  is  to  have  it  until  you  do." 

"I  am  quite  determined  to  have  that  house,"  said 
Althea.  ' '  A  place  that  you  love  must  be  lovely.  Write 
if  you  like.  But  the  matter  is  settled  in  my  mind." 

' '  Don 't  be  foolish,  my  dear, ' '  said  Aunt  Julia.  ' '  Miss 
Buchanan  is  quite  right.  You  mustn't  think  of  taking 
a  house  until  you  see  it.  How  do  you  know  that  the 
drainage  is  in  order,  or  even  that  the  beds  are  com 
fortable.  Miss  Buchanan  says  that  it  is  miles  away 
from  everything,  too.  You  may  find  the  situation  very 
dismal  and  unsympathetic." 

"It  's  pretty  country,  I  think, ' '  said  Helen,  ' ' and  I  'm 
sure  the  drainage  and  the  beds  are  all  right.  But 
Althea  must  certainly  see  it  first." 

It  was  settled,  however,  quite  settled  in  Althea 's 
mind  that  she  was  to  take  Merriston  House.  She  bade 

4 


50  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Helen  farewell  three  days  later,  and  they  had  arranged 
that  they  were,  within  a  fortnight,  to  meet  in  London, 
and  go  together  to  look  at  it. 

And  Althea  wrote  to  Franklin  Winslow  Kane,  and 
informed  him  of  her  new  plans,  and  that  he  must  be 
her  guest  at  Merriston  House  for  as  long  as  his  own 
plans  allowed  him.  Her  mood  in  regard  to  Franklin 
had  greatly  altered  since  that  evening  of  gloom  a  fort 
night  ago.  Franklin,  then,  had  seemed  the  only  fact 
worth  looking  at;  but  now  she  seemed  embarked  on  a 
voyage  of  discovery,  where  bright  new  planets  swam 
above  the  horizon  with  every  forward  rock  of  her  boat. 
Franklin  was  by  no  means  dismissed;  Franklin  could 
never  be  dismissed;  but  he  was  relegated;  and  though, 
as  far  as  her  fondness  went,  he  would  always  be  firmly 
placed,  she  could  hardly  place  him  clearly  in  the  new 
and  significantly  peopled  environment  that  her  new 
friendship  opened  to  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HELEN  BUCHANAN  was  a  person  greatly  in  de 
mand,  and,  in  her  migratory  existence,  her 
pauses  at  her  Aunt  Grizel's  little  house  near  Eaton 
Square  were,  though  frequent,  seldom  long.  "When  she 
did  come,  her  bedroom  and  her  sitting-room  were  always 
waiting  for  her,  as  was  Aunt  Grizel  with  her  cheerful 
"Well,  my  dear,  glad  to  see  you  back  again."  Their 
mutual  respect  and  trust  were  deep ;  their  affection,  too, 
though  it  was  seldom  expressed.  She  knew  Aunt  Grizel 
to  the  ground,  and  Aunt  Grizel  knew  her  to  the  ground 
— almost ;  and  they  were  always  pleased  to  be  together. 

Helen's  sitting-room,  where  she  could  see  any  one  she 
liked  and  at  any  time  she  liked,  was  behind  the  dining- 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  and  from  its  window  one  saw 
a  small  neat  garden  with  a  plot  of  grass,  bordering 
flower-beds,  a  row  of  little  fruit-trees,  black-branched 
but  brightly  foliaged,  and  high  walls  that  looked  as 
though  they  were  built  out  of  sooty  plum  cake.  Aunt 
Grizel's  cat,  Pharaoh,  sleek,  black,  and  stalwart,  often 
lay  on  the  grass  plot  in  the  sunlight ;  he  was  lying  there 
now,  languidly  turned  upon  his  side,  with  outstretched 
feet  and  drowsily  blinking  eyes,  when  Helen  and  her 
cousin,  Gerald  Digby,  talked  together  on  the  day  after 
her  return  from  Paris. 

Gerald  Digby  stood  before  the  fireplace  looking  with 
satisfaction  at  his  companion.  He  enjoyed  looking  at 

51 


52  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Helen,  for  he  admired  her  more  than  any  woman  he 
knew.  It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  see  her  again;  and, 
like  Aunt  Grizel,  he  trusted  and  respected  her  deeply, 
though  again,  like  Aunt  Grizel,  he  did  not,  perhaps, 
know  her  quite  down  to  the  ground.  He  thought,  how 
ever,  that  he  did;  he  knew  that  Helen  was  as  intimate 
with  nobody  in  the  world  as  with  him,  not  even  with 
Aunt  Grizel,  and  it  was  one  of  his  most  delightful  ex 
periences  to  saunter  through  all  the  chambers  of  Helen 's 
mind,  convinced  that  every  door  was  open  to  him. 

Gerald  Digby  was  a  tall  and  very  slender  man;  he 
tilted  forward  when  he  walked,  and  often  carried  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  He  had  thick,  mouse-coloured 
hair,  which  in  perplexed  or  meditative  moments  he 
often  ruffled  by  rubbing  his  hands  through  it,  and  even 
when  thus  disordered  it  kept  its  air  of  fashionable  grace. 
His  large,  long  nose,  his  finely  curved  lips  and  eyelids, 
had  a  delicately  carved  look,  as  though  the  sculptor  had 
taken  great  care  over  the  details  of  his  face.  His  brown 
eyes  had  thick,  upturned  lashes,  and  were  often  in  ex 
pression  absent  and  irresponsible,  but  when  he  looked  at 
any  one,  intent  and  merry,  like  a  gay  dog's  eyes.  And 
of  the  many  charming  things  about  Gerald  Digby  the 
most  charming  was  his  smile,  which  was  as  infectious  as 
a  child's,  and  exposed  a  joyous  array  of  large  white 
teeth. 

He  was  smiling  at  his  cousin  now,  for  she  was  telling 
him,  dryly,  yet  with  a  mocking  humour  all  her  own,  of 
her  Paris  fiasco  that  had  delayed  her  return  to  London 
by  a  fortnight,  and,  by  the  expense  it  had  entailed  upon 
her,  had  deprived  her  of  the  new  hat  and  dress  that  she 
had  hoped  in  Paris  to  secure.  Talking  of  Paris  led  to 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  53 

the  letter  she  had  sent  him  four  or  five  days  ago. 
"About  this  rich  American,"  said  Gerald;  "is  she  really 
going  to  take  Merriston,  do  you  think?  It  's  awfully 
good  of  you,  Helen,  to  try  and  get  a  tenant  for  me." 

"I  don't  know  that  you  'd  call  her  rich — not  as 
Americans  go;  but  I  believe  she  will  take  Merriston. 
She  wanted  to  take  it  at  once,  on  faith;  but  I  insisted 
that  she  must  see  it  first." 

"You  must  have  cried  up  the  dear  old  place  for  her 
to  be  so  eager." 

"I  think  she  is  eager  about  pleasing  me,"  said  Helen. 
"I  told  her  that  I  loved  the  place  and  hadn't  been  there 
for  years,  and  that  moved  her  very  much.  She  has 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  me." 

' '  Really, ' '  said  Gerald.     ' '  Why  ? ' ' 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don 't  know.  She  is  a  dear  little  person, 
but  rather  funny." 

"Of  course,  there  is  no  reason  why  any  one  shouldn't 
take  a  fancy  to  you,"  said  Gerald,  smiling;  "only — to 
that  extent — in  so  short  a  time." 

' '  I  appealed  to  her  pity,  I  think ;  she  came  in  and  took 
care  of  me,  and  was  really  unspeakably  kind.  And  she 
seemed  to  get  tremendously  interested  in  me.  But  then, 
she  seemed  capable  of  getting  tremendously  interested  in 
lots  of  things.  I  've  noticed  that  Americans  often  take 
things  very  seriously." 

"And  you  became  great  pals?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  did." 

"She  interested  you?" 

Helen  smiled  a  little  perplexedly,  and  lit  a  cigarette 
before  answering.  "Well,  no;  I  can't  say  that  she  did 
that;  but  that,  probably,  was  my  own  fault." 


54  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Why  didn't  she  interest  you?"  Gerald  went  on,  tak 
ing  a  cigarette  from  the  case  she  offered.  He  was  fond 
of  such  desultory  pursuit  of  a  subject;  he  and  Helen 
spent  hours  in  idle  exchanges  of  impression. 

Helen's  answer  was  hardly  illuminating:  "She 
wasn't  interesting." 

"It  was  rather  interesting  of  her  to  take  such  an 
interest  in  you,"  said  Gerald  subtly. 

"No."  Helen  warmed  to  the  theme.  It  had  indeed 
perplexed  her,  and  she  was  glad  to  unravel  her  impres 
sions  to  this  understanding  listener.  "No,  that  's  just 
what  it  wasn't;  it  might  have  been  if  one  hadn't  felt 
her  a  person  so  easily  affected.  She  had — how  can  I 
put  it? — it  seems  brutal  when  she  is  such  a  dear — but 
she  had  so  little  stuff  in  her ;  it  was  as  if  she  had  to  find 
it  all  the  time  in  other  things  and  people.  She  is  like 
a  glass  of  water  that  would  like  to  be  wine,  and  she  has 
no  wine  in  her;  it  could  only  be  poured  in,  and  there  's 
not  room  for  much.  At  best  she  can  only  be  eau 
rougie." 

Gerald  laughed.  ' '  How  you  see  things,  and  say  them ! 
Poor  Miss  Jakes! — that  's  her  name,  isn't  it?  She 
sounds  tame." 

"She  is  tame." 

"Is  she  young,  pretty?" 

' '  Not  young,  about  my  age ;  not  pretty,  but  it  's  a  nice 
face;  wistful,  with  large,  quite  lovely  eyes.  She  knows 
a  lot  about  everything,  and  has  been  everywhere,  and  has 
kept  all  her  illusions  intact — a  queer  mixture  of  informa 
tion  and  innocence.  It  's  difficult  to  keep  one 's  mind  on 
what  she  's  saying ;  there  is  never  any  background  to  it. 
She  wants  something,  but  she  doesn't  know  whether  it  's 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  55 

what  other  people  want  or  whether  it  's  what  she  wants, 
so  that  she  can't  want  anything  very  definitely." 

Gerald  still  laughed.  ' '  How  you  must  have  been  tak 
ing  her  in!" 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  been,  though  I  didn't  know 
it.  But  I  did  like  her,  you  know.  I  liked  her  very 
much.  A  glass  of  water  is  a  nice  thing  sometimes." 

"Nicer  than  eau  rougie;  I  'm  afraid  she  's  eau  rougie." 

" Eau  rougie  may  be  nice,  too,  if  one  is  tired  and 
thirsty  and  needs  mild  refreshment,  not  altogether  taste 
less,  and  not  at  all  intoxicating.  She  was  certainly  that 
to  me.  I  was  very  much  touched  by  her  kindness." 

"I  shall  be  touched  if  she  '11  take  Merriston.  I  'm 
fearfully  hard  up.  I  suppose  it  would  only  be  a  little 
let;  but  that  would  be  better  than  nothing." 

"She  might  stay  for  the  winter  if  she  liked  it.  I 
shan't  try  to  make  her  like  it,  but  I  '11  do  my  best  to 
make  her  stay  on  if  she  does,  and  with  a  clear  con 
science,  for  I  think  that  her  staying  will  depend  on  her 
seeing  me." 

"Wouldn't  that  mean  that  she  'd  be  a  great  deal  on 
your  hands?" 

"I  shouldn't  mind  that;  we  get  on  very  well.  She 
will  be  here  next  week,  you  know.  You  must  come  to 
tea  and  meet  her." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  that  I  'm  par 
ticularly  eager  to  meet  her,"  Gerald  confessed  jocosely. 

"You  '11  have  to  meet  her  a  good  deal  if  you  are  to 
see  much  of  me,"  said  Helen;  on  which  he  owned  that, 
with  that  compulsion  put  upon  him,  he  and  Miss  Jakes 
might  become  intimates. 

Gerald  Digby  was  a  young  man  who  did  very  little 


56  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

work.  He  had  been  vaguely  intended,  by  an  affection 
ate  but  haphazard  family,  for  the  diplomatic  service, 
but  it  was  found,  after  he  had  done  himself  some  credit 
at  Eton  and  Oxford,  that  the  family  resources  didn't 
admit  of  this  obviously  suitable  career  for  him;  and  an 
aged  and  wealthy  uncle,  who  had  been  looked  to  con 
fidently  for  succour,  married  at  the  moment,  most  un 
feelingly,  so  that  Gerald's  career  had  to  be  definitely 
abandoned.  Another  relation  found  him  a  berth  in  the 
City  where  he  might  hope  to  amass  quite  a  fortune; 
but  Gerald  soon  said  that  he  far  preferred  poverty. 
He  thought  that  he  would  like  to  paint  and  be  an 
artist;  he  had  a  joyful  eye  for  delicate,  minute  forms 
of  beauty,  and  was  most  happily  occupied  when  ab 
sorbed  in  Japanese-like  studies  of  transient  loveliness — 
a  bird  in  flight,  a  verdant  grasshopper  on  a  wheat- 
blade,  the  tangled  festoons  of  a  wild  convolvulus  spray. 
His  talent,  however,  though  genuine,  could  hardly  sup 
ply  him  with  a  livelihood,  and  he  would  have  been 
seriously  put  to  it  had  not  his  father's  death  left  him 
a  tiny  income,  while  a  half -informal  secretaryship  to  a 
political  friend,  offered  him  propitiously  at  the  same 
time,  gave  him  leisure  for  his  painting  as  well  as  for 
a  good  many  other  pleasant  things.  He  had  leisure,  in 
especial,  for  going  from  country-house  to  country- 
house,  where  he  was  immensely  in  demand,  and  where 
he  hunted,  danced,  and  acted  in  private  theatricals — 
usually  in  company  with  his  cousin  Helen.  Helen's 
position  in  life  was  very  much  like  his  own,  but  that 
she  hadn't  even  an  informal  secretaryship  to  depend 
upon.  He  had  known  Helen  all  his  life,  and  she  was 
almost  like  a  sister,  only  nicer;  for  he  associated  sisters 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  57 

with  his  own  brood,  who  were  lean,  hunting  ladies, 
pleasant,  but  monotonous  and  inarticulate.  Helen  was 
very  articulate  and  very  various.  He  loved  to  look  at 
her,  as  he  loved  to  look  at  birds  and  flowers,  and  he 
loved  to  talk  with  her.  He  had  many  opportunities  to 
look  and  talk.  They  stayed  at  the  same  houses  in  the 
country,  and  in  London,  when  she  was  with  old  Miss 
Buchanan,  he  usually  saw  her  every  day.  If  he  didn't 
drop  in  for  a  moment  on  his  way  to  work  at  ten-thirty 
in  the  morning,  he  dropped  in  to  tea;  and  if  his  or 
Helen's  day  were  too  full  to  admit  of  this,  he  managed 
to  come  in  for  a  good-night  chat  after  a  dinner  or  be 
fore  a  dance.  He  enjoyed  Helen's  talk  and  Helen's 
appearance  most  of  all,  he  thought,  at  these  late  hours, 
when,  a  little  weary  and  jaded,  in  evening  dress  and 
cloak,  she  lit  her  invariable  cigarette,  and  mused  with 
him  over  the  events  and  people  of  the  day.  He  liked 
Helen's  way  of  talking  about  people;  they  knew  an  in 
terminable  array  of  them,  many  involved  in  enlivening 
complications,  yet  Helen  never  gossiped;  the  musing 
impersonality  and  impartiality  with  which  she  com 
mented  and  surmised  lifted  her  themes  to  a  realm  almost 
of  art;  she  was  pungent,  yet  never  malicious,  and  the 
tolerant  lucidity  of  her  insight  was  almost  benign. 

Her  narrow  face,  leaning  back  in  its  dark  aureole  of 
hair,  her  strange  eyes  and  bitter-sweet  lips — all  dimmed, 
as  it  were,  by  drowsiness  and  smoke,  and  yet  never  more 
intelligently  awake  than  at  these  nocturnal  hours — re 
mained  with  him  as  most  typical  of  Helen's  most  sig 
nificant  and  charming  self.  It  was  her  aspect  of 
mystery  and  that  faint  hint  of  bitterness  that  he  found 
so  charming;  Helen  herself  he  never  thought  of  as 


58  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

mysterious.  Mystery  was  a  mere  outward  asset  of  her 
beauty,  like  the  powdery  surface  of  a  moth's  wing.  He 
didn't  think  of  Helen  as  mysterious,  perhaps  because  he 
thought  little  about  her  at  all;  he  only  looked  and  lis 
tened  while  she  made  him  think  about  everything  but 
herself,  and  he  felt  always  happy  and  altogether  at 
ease  in  her  presence.  There  seemed,  indeed,  no  reason 
for  thinking  about  a  person  whom  one  had  known  all 
one's  life  long. 

And  Helen  was  more  than  the  best  of  company  and 
the  loveliest  of  objects;  she  was  at  once  comrade  and 
counsellor.  He  depended  upon  her  more  than  upon 
any  one.  Comically  helpless  as  he  often  found  himself, 
he  asked  her  advice  about  everything,  and  always  re 
ceived  the  wisest. 

He  had  had  often,  though  not  so  much  in  late  years, 
to  ask  her  advice  about  girls,  for  in  spite  of  his  financial 
ineligibility  he  was  so  engaging  a  person  that  he  found 
himself  continually  drawn  to  the  verge  of  decisive 
flirtations.  His  was  rarely  the  initiative;  he  was  re 
sponsive  and  affectionate  and  not  at  all  susceptible,  and 
Helen,  who  knew  girls  of  her  world  to  the  bone,  could 
accurately  gauge  the  effect  upon  him  of  the  pleading 
coquetry  at  which  they  were  such  adepts.  She  could 
gauge  them  the  better,  no  doubt,  from  having  herself 
no  trace  of  coquetry.  Men  often  liked  her,  but  often 
found  her  cold  and  cynical,  and  even  suspected  her 
of  conceit,  especially  since  it  was  known  that  she  had 
refused  many  excellent  opportunities  for  establishing 
herself  in  life.  She  was  also  suspected  by  many  of 
abysmal  cleverness,  and  this  reputation  frightened  ad 
miring  but  uncomplicated  young  men  more  than  any- 


59 

thing  else.  Now,  when  her  first  youth  was  past,  men 
more  seldom  fell  in  love  with  her  and  more  frequently 
liked  her ;  they  had  had  time  to  find  out  that  if  she  were 
cold  she  was  also  very  kind,  and  that  if  abysmally  clever, 
she  could  adapt  her  cleverness  to  pleasant,  trivial  uses. 

Gerald,  when  he  thought  at  all  about  her,  thought  of 
Helen  as  indeed  cold,  clever,  and  cynical ;  but  these 
qualities  never  oppressed  him,  aware  from  the  first,  as 
he  had  been,  of  the  others,  and  he  found  in  them,  more 
over,  veritable  shields  and  bucklers  for  himself.  It  was 
to  some  one  deeply  experienced,  yet  quite  unwarped  by 
personal  emotions,  that  he  brought  his  recitals  of  dis 
tress  and  uncertainty.  Lady  Molly  was  a  perfect  little 
dear,  but  could  he  go  on  with  it?  How  could  he  if  he 
would?  She  hadn't  any  money,  and  her  people  would 
be  furious;  she  herself,  he  felt  sure,  would  be  miserable 
in  no  time,  if  they  did  marry.  They  wouldn't  even 
have  enough — would  they,  did  Helen  think? — for  love 
in  a  cottage,  and  Molly  would  hate  love  in  a  cottage. 
They  would  have  to  go  about  living  on  their  relations 
and  friends,  as  he  now  did,  more  or  less;  but  with  a 
wife  and  babies,  how  could  one?  Did  Helen  think  one 
could?  Gerald  would  finish  dismally,  standing  before 
her  with  his  hands  thrust  deeply  into  his  pockets  and 
a  ruffled  brow  of  inquiry.  Or  else  it  was  the  pretty 
Miss  Oliver  who  had  him — half  alarmed,  half  enchanted 
— in  her  toils,  and  Gerald  couldn't  imagine  what  she 
was  going  to  do  with  him.  For  such  entanglements 
Helen's  advice  had  always  shown  a  way  out,  and  for  his 
uncertainties — though  she  never  took  the  responsibility 
of  actual  guidance — her  reflective  questionings,  her 
mere  reflective  silences,  were  illuminating.  They  made 


60  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

clear  for  him,  as  for  her,  that  recklessness  could  only  be 
worth  while  if  one  were  really — off  one's  own  bat,  as  it 
were — "in  love";  and  that,  this  lacking,  recklessness 
was  folly  sure  to  end  in  disaster.  "Wait,  either  until 
you  care  so  much  that  you  must,  or  else  until  you  meet 
some  one  so  nice,  so  rich,  and  so  suitable  that  you  may," 
said  Helen.  ' '  If  you  are  not  careful  you  will  find  your 
self  married  to  some  one  who  will  bore  you  and  quarrel 
with  you  on  twopence  a  year." 

"You  must  be  careful  for  me,"  said  Gerald.  "Please 
warn  and  protect." 

And  Helen  replied  that  she  would  always  do  her  best 
for  him. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Gerald  to  turn  the  tables  on 
Helen  and  tell  her  that  she  ought  to  marry.  His 
imagination  was  not  occupied  with  Helen's  state,  though 
once,  after  a  conversation  with  old  Miss  Buchanan,  he 
remarked  to  Helen,  looking  at  her  with  a  vague  curi 
osity,  that  it  was  a  pity  she  hadn't  taken  Lord  Henry 
or  Mr.  Fergusson.  "Miss  Buchanan  tells  me  you  might 
have  been  one  of  the  first  hostesses  in  London  if  you 
hadn't  thrown  away  your  chances." 

"I  'm  all  right,"  said  Helen. 

"Yes,  you  yourself  are;  but  after  she  dies?" 

Helen  owned,  with  a  smile,  that  she  could  certainly 
do  with  some  few  thousands  a  year ;  but  that,  in  default 
of  them,  she  could  manage  to  scrape  along. 

"But  you  Ve  never  had  any  better  chances,  have 
you?"  said  Gerald  rather  tentatively.  He  might  con 
fide  everything  in  Helen,  but  he  realised,  as  a  restrain 
ing  influence,  that  she  never  made  any  confidences,  even 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  bl 

to  him,  who,  he  was  convinced,  knew  her  down  to  the 
ground. 

Helen  owned  that  she  hadn't. 

"Your  aunt  thinks  it  a  dreadful  pity.  She  's  very 
much  worried  about  you." 

"It  's  late  in  the  day  for  the  poor  dear  to  worry.  The 
chances  were  over  long  ago." 

"You  didn't  care  enough?" 

"I  was  young  and  foolish  enough  to  want  to  be  in 
love  when  I  married,"  said  Helen,  smiling  at  him  with 
her  half-closed  eyes. 

And  Gerald  said  that,  yes,  he  would  have  expected 
that  from  her;  and  with  this  dismissed  the  subject  from 
his  mind,  taking  it  for  granted  that  Helen's  disengaged, 
sustaining,  and  enlivening  spinsterhood  would  always 
be  there  for  his  solace  and  amusement. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HELEN  was  on  one  side  of  her  and  Mr.  Digby 
sat  in  an  opposite  corner  of  the  railway  carriage, 
and  they  were  approaching  the  end  of  the  journey  to 
Merriston  House  on  a  bright  July  day  soon  after 
Althea's  arrival  in  England.  She  had  met  Mr.  Digby 
at  Helen's  the  day  before  and  had  suggested  that  he 
should  come  with  them.  Gerald  had  remarked  that  it 
might  be  tiresome  if  she  hated  Merriston,  and  he  were 
there  to  see  that  she  hated  it ;  but  Althea  was  so  sure  of 
liking  it  that  her  conviction  imposed  itself. 

Mr.  Digby  and  Helen  were  both  smoking;  they  had 
asked  her  very  solicitously  whether  she  minded,  and  she 
had  said  she  didn  't,  although  in  fact  she  did  not  like  the 
smell  of  tobacco,  and  Helen's  constant  cigarette  dis 
tressed  her  quite  unselfishly  on  the  score  of  health. 
The  windows  were  wide  open,  and  though  the  gale  that 
blew  through  ruffled  her  smooth  hair  and  made  her  veil 
tickle  disagreeably,  these  minor  discomforts  could  not 
spoil  her  predominant  sense  of  excitement  and  adven 
ture.  Mr.  Digby 's  presence,  particularly,  roused  it. 
He  was  so  long,  so  limp,  so  graceful,  lounging  there  in 
his  corner.  His  socks  and  his  tie  were  of  such  a  charm 
ing  shade  of  blue  and  his  hair  such  a  charming  shade  of 
light  mouse-colour.  He  was  vague  and  blithe,  immersed 
in  his  own  thoughts,  which,  apparently,  were  pleasant 
and  superficial.  When  his  eyes  met  Althea's,  he  smiled 

62 


FRANKLIN  .WINSLOW  KANE  63 

at  her,  and  she  thought  his  smile  the  most  engaging 
she  had  ever  seen.  For  the  rest,  he  hardly  spoke  at 
all,  and  did  not  seem  to  consider  it  incumbent  on  him 
to  make  any  conversational  efforts,  yet  his  mere  presence 
lent  festivity  to  the  occasion. 

Helen  did  not  talk  much  either;  she  smoked  her  cig 
arette  and  looked  out  of  the  window  with  half-closed 
eyes.  Her  slender  feet,  encased  in  grey  shoes,  were 
propped  on  the  opposite  seat;  her  grey  travelling-dress 
hung  in  smoke-like  folds  about  her ;  in  her  little  hat  was 
a  bright  green  wing. 

Althea  wondered  if  Mr.  Digby  appreciated  his 
cousin's  appearance,  or  if  long  brotherly  familiarity  had 
dimmed  his  perception  of  it.  She  wondered  how  her 
own  appearance  struck  him.  She  knew  that  she  was 
very  trim  and  very  elegant,  and  in  mere  beauty — quite 
apart  from  charm,  which  she  didn't  claim — she  surely 
excelled  Helen;  Helen  with  her  narrow  eyes,  odd  pro 
jecting  nose,  and  small,  sulkily-moulded  lips.  Deeply 
though  she  felt  the  fascination  of  her  friend's  strange 
visage,  she  could  but  believe  her  own  the  lovelier.  So 
many  people — not  only  Franklin  Winslow  Kane — had 
thought  her  lovely.  There  was  no  disloyalty  in  recog 
nising  the  fact  for  oneself,  and  an  innocent  satisfaction 
in  the  hope  that  Mr.  Digby  might  recognise  it  too. 

The  day  that  flashed  by  on  either  side  had  also  a 
festive  quality:  blue  skies  heaped  with  snowy  clouds; 
fields  brimmed  with  breeze-swept  grain,  green  and  silver, 
or  streaked  with  the  gold  of  buttercups;  swift  streams 
and  the  curves  of  summer  foliage.  It  was  a  country 
remote,  wooded  and  pastoral,  and  Althea,  a  connoisseur 
in  landscapes,  was  enchanted. 


64  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Do  you  like  it?"  Helen  asked  her  as  they  passed 
along  the  edge  of  a  little  wood,  glimpses  of  bright 
meadow  among  its  clearings.  "We  are  almost  there 
now,  and  it  's  like  this  all  about  Merriston." 

"I  Ve  hardly  seen  any  part  of  England  I  like  so 
much,"  said  Althea.  "It  has  a  sweet,  untouched  wild- 
ness  rather  rare  in  England." 

"I  always  think  that  it  's  a  country  to  love  and  live 
in,"  said  Helen.  "Some  countries  seem  made  only  to  be 
looked  at." 

Althea  wondered,  as  she  then  went  on  looking  at 
this  country,  whether  she  were  thinking  of  her  girlhood 
and  of  her  many  journeys  to  Merriston.  She  wondered 
if  Mr.  Digby  were  thinking  of  his  boyhood.  Ever  since 
seeing  these  two  together  yesterday  afternoon  she  had 
wondered  about  them.  She  had  never  encountered  a 
relationship  quite  like  theirs;  it  was  so  close,  so  con 
fident,  yet  so  untender.  She  could  hardly  make  out 
that  they  liked  each  other;  all  that  one  saw  was  that 
they  trusted,  so  that  it  had  something  of  the  business 
like  quality  of  a  partnership.  Yet  she  found  herself 
building  up  an  absurd  little  romance  about  their  past. 
It  might  be,  who  knew,  that  Mr.  Digby  had  once  been 
in  love  with  Helen  and  that  she  had  refused  him;  he 
was  poor,  and  she  had  said  that  she  must  marry  money. 
Althea 's  heart  tightened  a  little  with  compassion  for 
Mr.  Digby.  Only,  if  this  ever  had  been,  it  was  well 
over  now;  and  more  narrowly  observing  Mr.  Digby 's 
charming  and  irresponsible  face,  she  reflected  that  he 
was  hardly  the  sort  of  person  to  illustrate  large  themes 
of  passion  and  fidelity. 

A  fly  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  station,  and  as  they 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  65 

jolted  away  Gerald  remarked  that  she  was  now  to  see 
one  of  the  worst  features  of  Merriston;  it  was  over  an 
hour  from  the  station,  and  if  one  hadn't  a  motor  the 
drive  was  a  great  bore.  Althea,  however,  didn't  find  it 
a  bore.  Her  companions  talked  now,  their  heads  at 
the  windows ;  it  had  been  years  since  they  had  traversed 
that  country  together;  every  inch  of  it  was  known  to 
them  and  significant  of  weary  waits,  wonderful  runs, 
feats  and  misadventures  at  gates  and  ditches;  for  their 
reminiscences  were  mainly  sportsmanlike.  Althea  lis 
tened,  absorbed,  but  distressed.  It  was  Gerald  who 
caught  and  interpreted  the  expression  of  her  large,  gen 
tle  eyes. 

' '  I  don 't  believe  you  like  fox-hunting,  Miss  Jakes, ' '  he 
said. 

"No,  indeed,  I  do  not,"  said  Althea,  shaking  her  head. 

"You  mean  you  think  it  cruel?" 

"Very  cruel." 

"Yet  where  would  we  be  without  it?"  said  Gerald. 
"And  where  would  the  foxes  be?  After  all,  while  they 
live,  their  lives  are  particularly  pleasant." 

"With  possible  intervals  of  torture?  Don't  you 
think  that,  if  they  could  choose,  they  would  rather  not 
live  at  all?" 

"Oh,  a  canny  old  fox  doesn't  mind  the  run  so  much, 
you  know — enjoys  it  after  a  fashion,  no  doubt." 

"Don't  salve  your  conscience  by  that  sophism,  Gerald; 
the  fox  is  canny  because  he  has  been  terrified  so  often, ' ' 
said  Helen.  "Let  us  own  that  it  is  barbarous,  but  such 
glorious  sport  that  one  tries  to  forget  the  fox." 

It  required  some  effort  for  Althea  to  testify  against 
her  and  Mr.  Digby,  but  she  felt  so  strongly  on  the 
s 


66  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

subject  of  animals,  foxes  in  particular,  that  her  courage 
did  not  fail  her.  "I  think  it  is  when  we  forget,  that 
the  dreadful  things  in  life,  the  sins  and  cruelties,  hap 
pen,"  she  said. 

Gerald's  gay  eyes  were  cogitatingly  fixed  on  her,  and 
Helen  continued  to  look  out  of  the  window;  but  she 
thought  that  they  both  liked  her  the  better  for  her 
frankness,  and  she  felt  in  the  little  ensuing  silence  that 
it  had  brought  them  nearer — bright,  alien  creatures 
that  they  were. 

Her  first  view  of  Merriston  House  hardly  confirmed 
her  hopes  of  it,  though  she  would  not  have  owned  to  her 
self  that  this  was  so.  It  was  neither  so  beautiful  nor 
so  imposing  as  she  had  expected;  it  was  even,  perhaps, 
rather  commonplace;  but  in  a  moment  she  was  able  to 
overcome  this  slight  disloyalty  and  to  love  it  the  more 
for  its  unpretentiousness.  A  short,  winding  avenue  of 
limes  led  to  it,  and  it  stood  high  among  lawns  that  fell 
away  to  lower  shrubberies  and  woods.  It  was  a  square 
stone  house,  covered  with  creepers,  a  white  rose  cluster 
ing  over  the  doorway  and  a  group  of  trees  overtopping 
its  chimneys. 

Inside,  where  the  housekeeper  welcomed  them  and  tea 
waited  for  them,  was  the  same  homely  brightness. 
Hunting  prints  hung  in  the  hall;  rows  of  mediocre, 
though  pleasing,  family  portraits  in  the  dining-room. 
The  long  drawing-room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  over 
looking  the  lawns  and  a  far  prospect,  was  a  much  in 
habited  room,  cheerful  and  shabby.  There  were  old- 
fashioned  water-colour  landscapes,  porcelain  in  cabinets 
and  on  shelves,  and  many  tables  crowded  with  ivory  and 
silver  bric-a-brac;  things  from  India  and  things  from 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  67 

China,  that  Digbys  in  the  Army  and  Digbys  in  the 
Navy  had  brought  home. 

"What  a  Philistine  room  it  is,"  said  Gerald,  smiling 
as  he  looked  around  him;  "but  I  must  say  I  like  it  just 
as  it  is.  It  has  never  made  an  aesthetic  effort." 

Gerald's  smile  irradiated  the  whole  house  for  Althea, 
and  lit  up,  in  especial,  the  big,  sunny  schooolroom  where 
he  and  Helen  found  most  memories  of  all.  "The  same 
old  table,  Helen,"  he  said,  "and  other  children  have 
spilled  ink  on  it  and  scratched  their  initials  just  as  we 
used  to;  here  are  yours  and  mine.  Do  you  remember 
the  day  we  did  them  under  Fraulein's  very  nose?  And 
here  are  all  our  old  books,  too.  Look,  Helen,  the 
Roman  history  with  your  wicked  drawings  on  the  fly 
leaves:  Tullia  driving  over  her  poor  old  father,  and 
Cornelia — ironic  little  wretch  you  were  even  then — 
what  a  prig  she  is  with  her  jewels!  And  what  splendid 
butter-scotch  you  used  to  make  over  the  fire  on  winter 
evenings. ' ' 

Helen  remembered  everything,  smiling  as  she  followed 
Gerald  about  the  room  and  looked  at  ruthless  Tullia; 
and  Althea,  watching  them,  was  touched — for  them,  and 
then,  with  a  little  counter-stroke  of  memory,  for  herself. 
She  remembered  her  old  home  too — the  dignified  old 
house  in  steep  Chestnut  Street,  and  the  little  house  on 
the  blue  Massachusetts  coast  where  she  had  often  passed 
long  days  playing  by  herself,  for  she  had  been  an  only 
child.  She  loved  it  here,  for  it  was  like  a  home,  peace 
ful  and  sheltering;  but  where  in  all  the  world  had  she 
really  a  home  ?  Where  in  all  the  world  did  she  belong  ? 
The  thought  brought  tears  to  her  eyes  as  she  looked  out 
of  the  schoolroom  window  and  listened  to  Gerald  and 


68  FKANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Helen.  It  had  ended,  of  course,  for  of  course  it  had 
really  begun,  in  Althea's  decision  to  take  Merriston 
House.  It  was  quite  fixed  now,  and  on  the  way  back 
she  had  made  her  new  friends  promise  to  be  often  to 
gether  with  her  in  the  home  of  their  youth.  She  had 
made  them  promise  this  so  prettily  and  with  such  gentle 
warmth  that  it  was  very  natural  that  Gerald,  in  talking 
over  the  event  with  Helen  that  evening,  should  say, 
strolling  round  Helen's  little  sitting-room,  "She  's 
rather  a  dear,  that  little  friend  of  yours." 

Helen  was  tired  and  lay  extended  on  the  divan  in 
the  grey  dress  she  had  not  had  time  to  change.  She 
had  doffed  her  hat  and,  thrusting  its  hatpins  through 
it,  had  laid  it  on  her  knees,  so  that,  as  Gerald  had  re 
marked,  she  looked  rather  like  Briinhilde  on  her  rocky 
couch.  But,  unlike  Briinhilde  her  hands  were  clasped 
behind  her  neck,  and  she  looked  up  at  the  ceiling.  "A 
perfect  little  dear,"  she  assented. 

"Did  you  notice  her  eyes  when  she  was  talking  about 
the  foxes.  They  were  as  sorrowful  and  piteous  as  a 
Mater  Dolorosa's.  She  is  definite  enough  about  some 
things,  isn't  she?  Things  like  right  and  wrong,  I  mean, 
as  she  sees  them." 

' '  Yes ;  she  is  clear  about  outside  things,  like  right  and 
wrong. ' ' 

"It  's  a  good  deal  to  be  clear  about,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  Helen  reflected.  "I  don't  feel  that 
I  really  understand  Althea.  People  who  aren't  clear 
about  themselves  are  difficult  to  understand,  I  think." 

"It  's  that  that  really  gives  them  a  mystery.  I  feel 
that  she  really  is  a  little  mysterious,"  said  Gerald. 
"One  wonders  what  she  would  do  in  certain  cases  and 


69 

feel  in  certain  situations,  and  one  can't  remotely  imag 
ine.     She  is  a  sealed  book." 
"She  wonders,"  said  Helen. 
"And  you  suspect  that  her  pages  are  empty?" 
Helen  reflected,   but  nothing  seemed  to   come.     She 
closed  her  eyes,  smiling,  and  said,  "Be  off,  please.     I  'm 
getting  too  sleepy  to  have  suspicions.     We  have  plenty 
of  time  to  find   out  whether   anything  is  written   on 
Althea's  pages." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BUT,  when  Gerald  was  gone,  Helen  found  that  she 
was  no  longer  sleepy.  .She  lay,  her  eyes  closed, 
straight  and  still,  like  an  effigy  on  a  tomb,  and  she 
thought,  intently  and  quietly.  It  was  more  a  series  of 
pictures  than  a  linking  of  ideas  with  which  her  mind 
was  occupied — pictures  of  her  childhood  and  girlhood 
in  Scotland  and  at  Merriston  House.  It  was  dispassion 
ately  that  she  watched  the  little  figure,  lonely,  violent, 
walking  over  the  moors,  hiding  in  the  thickets  of  the 
garden,  choking  with  tears  of  fury,  clenching  teeth  over 
fierce  resentments.  She  almost  smiled  at  the  sight  of 
her.  What  constant  resentments,  what  frequent  furies ! 
They  centred,  of  course,  about  the  figure  of  her  mother, 
lovely,  vindictive,  and  stony-hearted,  as  she  had  been 
and  was.  Helen's  life  had  dawned  in  the  consciousness 
of  love  for  this  beautiful  mother,  whom  she  had  wor 
shipped  with  the  ardent  humility  of  a  little  dog. 
Afterwards,  with  a  vehemence  as  great,  she  had  grown 
to  hate  her.  All  her  girlhood  had  been  filled  with 
struggles  against  her  mother.  Sometimes  for  weeks  they 
had  not  spoken  to  each  other,  epochs  during  which,  com 
pletely  indifferent  though  she  was,  Mrs.  Buchanan  had 
given  herself  the  satisfaction  of  smartly  boxing  her 
daughter's  ears  when  her  mute,  hostile  presence  too 
much  exasperated  her.  There  had  been  no  refuge  for 
Helen  with  her  father,  a  gloomy  man,  immersed  in  sport 

70 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  71 

and  study,  nor  in  her  brother  Nigel,  gay  and  pleasant 
though  he  was.  "When  once  Nigel  got  away  to  school 
and  college,  he  spent  as  little  time  at  home  as  possible. 
Helen  was  as  solitary  as  a  sea-bird,  blown  far  inland 
and  snared.  Then  came  the  visits  to  Merriston  House 
— the  cheerful,  chattering  houseful  of  happy  girls,  the 
kind  father  and  mother,  and  Gerald.  Gerald!  From 
the  time  that  he  came  into  her  life  all  the  pictures  were 
full  of  him,  so  full  that  she  hardly  saw  herself  any 
longer;  she  was  only  some  one  who  watched  and  felt. 

Her  violent  nature,  undisciplined  except  by  its  own 
pride,  did  not  submit  easily  to  the  taming  processes  of 
a  wholesome  family  life ;  she  dominated  the  girl  cousins, 
and  they  only  counted  as  chorus  in  the  drama  of  her 
youth.  It  was  Gerald  who  counted,  at  once,  counted  for 
everything  else.  She  cared  so  much  for  him  that,  feel 
ing  her  independence  slipping  from  her,  she  at  first 
quarrelled  with  him  constantly,  as  far  as  he  would  let 
her  quarrel  with  him.  Her  brooding  bitterness  amazed 
and  amused  him.  While  she  stormed,  he  would  laugh 
at  her,  gaily  and  ironically,  and  tell  her  that  she  was 
an  absurd  little  savage.  And,  after  she  had  burst  into 
a  frenzy  of  tears  and  fled  from  him,  he  would  seek  her 
out,  find  her  hidden  in  some  corner  of  the  garden  or 
shrubberies,  and,  grieved  and  alarmed,  put  his  arms 
around  her,  kiss  her  and  say:  "Look  here,  I  'm  awfully 
sorry.  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  take  things  like  this. 
Please  make  up." 

He  could  not  bear  to  see  her  suffering,  ludicrous 
though  he  thought  her  suffering  to  be.  And  it  was  this 
sweetness,  this  comprehension  and  tenderness,  like  sun 
light  flooding  her  gloomy  and  petrified  young  heart,  that 


72  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

filled  Helen  with  astonished  bliss.  She  was  tamed  at 
last  to  the  extent  of  laughing  with  Gerald  at  herself; 
and,  though  the  force  of  her  nature  led  him,  the  sweet 
ness  of  his  nature  controlled  her.  They  became  the 
dearest  of  friends. 

Yes,  so  it  had  always  been ;  so  it  had  always  looked — to 
all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  to  Gerald.  Helen,  lying  on 
her  divan,  saw  the  pictures  of  comradeship  filling  the 
years.  It  was  her  consciousness  of  what  the  real  mean 
ing  of  the  pictures  was  that  supplied  something  else, 
something  hidden  and  desperate  that  pulsed  in  them  all. 
How  she  remembered  the  first  time  that  she  had  drawn 
away  when  Gerald  kissed  her,  putting  up  between  them 
the  shield  of  a  lightly  yet  decisively  accepted  convention 
ality.  They  were  "growing  up";  this  was  her  justifica 
tion.  How  she  remembered  what  it  had  cost  her  to 
keep  up  the  lightness  of  her  smile  so  that  he  should  not 
guess  what  lay  beneath.  Her  nature  was  all  passion, 
and  enclosing  this  passion,  like  a  steady  hand  held  round 
a  flame,  was  a  fierce  purity,  a  fierce  pride.  Gerald  had 
never  guessed.  No  one  had  ever  guessed.  It  seemed 
to  Helen  that  the  pain  of  it  had  broken  her  heart  in  the 
very  spring  of  her  years ;  that  it  was  only  a  maimed  and 
cautious  creature  that  the  world  had  ever  known. 

She  lay,  and  drew  long  quiet  breaths  in  looking  at  it 
all.  The  day  of  reawakened  memories  had  been  like  a 
sword  in  her  heart,  and  now  she  seemed  to  draw  it  out 
slowly,  and  let  the  blood  come  with  a  sense  of  peace. 
She  could  even,  as  often,  lend  to  the  contemplation  of 
her  tragedy  the  bitter  little  grimace  of  mockery  with 
which  she  met  so  much  of  life.  She  could  tell  herself, 
as  often,  that  she  had  never  outgrown  love-sick  girlhood, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  73 

and  that  she  was  merely  in  love  with  Gerald's  smile. 
Yet  Gerald  was  all  in  his  smile;  and  Gerald,  it  seemed, 
was  made  to  be  loved,  all  of  him,  helplessly  and  hope 
lessly,  by  unfortunate  her.  She  felt  her  love  as  a  mis 
fortune;  it  was  too  strong  and  too  unsatisfied  to  be  felt 
in  any  sense  as  joy,  though  it  strung  her  nature  to  a  pain 
ful  appreciation  of  joy.  She  saw  life  with  a  cold,  ap 
praising  eye;  it  was  like  a  landscape  robbed  of  all 
sunlight,  and,  so  robbed,  so  bleak,  and  so  bereft,  it  was 
easy  to  appraise  it,  to  see,  since  one  could  have  no 
warmth  or  light,  what  were  the  next  best  things  to  have. 
She  had  missed  the  next  best  things  again  and  again, 
when  the  moment  had  come  for  taking  them;  she  had 
drawn  back  sick,  blanched,  shaken  with  the  throes  of 
desperate  hope.  Only  in  these  last  years,  when  next 
best  things  were  no  longer  so  plentiful,  had  hope  really 
died.  Her  heart  still  beat,  but  it  seemed  to  beat  thinly, 
among  all  the  heaped-up  ashes  of  dead  hopes.  She  was 
free  to  go  forth  into  the  sunless  world  and  choose  what 
place  should  be  hers.  She  did  not  care  much  for  any 
thing  that  world  had  to  give  her.  But  she  intended  to 
choose  carefully  and  calmly.  She  was  aware  in  herself 
of  firm,  well-knit  faculty,  of  tastes,  sharp  and  sensitive, 
demanding  only  an  opportunity  to  express  themselves  in 
significant  and  finished  forms  of  life ;  and  though  Helen 
did  not  think  of  it  in  these  terms,  saying  merely  to  her 
self  that  she  wanted  money  and  power,  the  background 
of  her  intention  was  a  consciousness  of  capacity  for 
power.  Reflecting  on  this  power,  and  on  the  paths  to 
its  realisation,  she  was  led  far,  indeed,  from  any  thought 
of  Althea;  and  Althea  was  not  at  all  in  her  mind  as, 
sleepy  at  last,  and  very  weary,  she  remembered  Gerald's 


74  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

last  words.  It  was  the  thought  of  Gerald  that  brought 
the  thought  of  Althea,  and  of  Althea's  pages.  Fair  and 
empty  they  were,  she  felt  sure,  adorned  only  here  and 
there  with  careful  and  becoming  maxims.  She  smiled  a 
little,  not  untenderly,  as  she  thought  of  Althea.  But, 
just  before  sinking  to  deeper  drowsiness,  and  deciding 
that  she  must  rouse  herself  and  go  upstairs  to  bed,  a 
further  consciousness  came  to  her.  The  sunny  day  at 
Merriston  had  not,  in  her  thoughts,  brought  them  near 
to  one  another — Gerald,  and  Althea,  and  her;  yet  some 
thing  significant  ran  through  her  sudden  memory  of  it. 
She  had  moments  of  her  race 's  sense  of  second-sight,  and 
it  never  came  without  making  her  aware  of  a  pause — 
a  strange,  forced  pause — where  she  had  to  look  at  some 
thing,  touch  something,  in  the  dark,  as  it  were.  It  was 
there  as  she  roused  herself  from  her  half-somnolent 
state ;  it  was  there  in  the  consciousness  of  a  turning- 
point  in  her  life — in  Gerald's,  in  Althea's.  "We  may 
write  something  on  Althea's  pages,"  was  the  thought 
with  which,  smiling  over  its  inappropriateness,  she  went 
upstairs.  And  the  fancy  faded  from  her  memory,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  bird's  wing  that  brushed  her  cheek  in 
the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ALTHEA  went  down  to  Merriston  House  in  the  mid 
dle  of  July.  Helen  accompanied  her  to  see  her 
safely  installed  and  to  set  the  very  torpid  social  ball 
rolling.  There  were  not  many  neighbours,  but  Helen  as 
sembled  them  all.  She  herself  could  stay  only  a  few 
days.  She  was  bound,  until  the  middle  of  August,  in  a 
rush  of  engagements,  and  meanwhile  Althea,  rather 
ruefully,  was  forced  to  fall  back  on  Miss  Buckston  for 
companionship.  She  had  always,  till  now,  found  Miss 
Buckston 's  cheerful  dogmatism  fortifying,  and,  even 
when  it  irritated  her,  instructive ;  but  she  had  now  new 
standards  of  interest,  and  new  sources  of  refreshment, 
and,  shut  up  with  Miss  Buckston  for  a  rainy  week,  she 
felt  as  never  before  the  defects  of  this  excellent  person 's 
many  qualities. 

She  had  fires  lighted,  much  to  Miss  Buckston 's  amuse 
ment,  and  sat  a  good  deal  by  the  blaze  in  the  drawing- 
room,  controlling  her  displeasure  when  Miss  Buckston, 
dressed  in  muddy  tweed  and  with  a  tweed  cap  pulled 
down  over  her  brows,  came  striding  in  from  a  ten-mile 
tramp  and  said,  pulling  open  all  the  windows,  "Yea 
are  frightfully  f rusty  in  here." 

It  was  not  "f rusty."  Althea  had  a  scientific  regard 
for  ventilation,  and  a  damp  breeze  from  the  garden  blew 
in  at  the  furthest  window.  She  had  quite  enough  air. 

Miss  Buckston  was  also  very  critical  of  Merriston 

75 


76  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

House,  and  pointed  out  the  shabbiness  of  the  chintz  and 
faded  carpets.  The  garden,  she  said,  was  shamefully 
neglected,  and  she  could  not  conceive  how  people  could 
bear  to  let  a  decent  place  like  this  go  to  ruin.  ' '  But  he  's 
a  slack  creature,  Gerald  Digby,  I  've  heard." 

Althea  coldly  explained  that  Mr.  Digby  was  too  poor 
to  live  at  Merriston  and  to  keep  it  up.  She  did  not  her 
self  in  the  least  mind  the  shabbiness. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  it,"  said  Miss  Buckston.  "I  only 
think  he  's  done  himself  very  well  in  getting  you  to  take 
the  place  in  this  condition.  How  much  do  you  give  for 
it?" 

Althea,  more  coldly,  named  the  sum.  It  was  mod 
erate  ;  Miss  Buckston  had  to  grant  that,  though  but  half- 
satisfied  that  there  was  no  intention  to  ' '  do  "  her  friend. 
"When  once  you  get  into  the  hands  of  hard-up  fash 
ionable  folk,"  she  said,  "it  's  as  well  to  look  sharp." 

Althea  did  not  quite  know  what  to  say  to  this.  She 
had  never  in  the  past  opposed  Miss  Buckston,  and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  tell  her  now  that  she  took  too  much 
upon  herself.  At  a  hint  of  hesitancy,  she  knew,  Miss 
Buckston  would  pass  to  and  fro  over  her  like  a  steam 
roller,  nearly  as  noisy,  and  to  her  own  mind  as  com 
posedly  efficient.  Hesitancy  or  contradiction  she  flat 
tened  and  left  behind  her. 

She  had  an  air  of  owning  Bach  that  became  peculiarly 
vexatious  to  Althea,  who,  in  silence,  but  armed  with  new 
standards,  was  assembling  her  own  forces  and  observed, 
in  casting  an  eye  over  them,  that  she  had  heard  five  times 
as  much  music  as  Miss  Buckston  and  might  be  granted 
the  right  of  an  opinion  on  it.  She  took  satisfaction  in  a 
memory  of  Miss  Buckston 's  face  singing  in  the  Bach 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  77 

choir — even  at  the  time  it  had  struck  her  as  funny — at 
a  concert  to  which  Althea  had  gone  with  her  some  years 
ago  in  London.  It  was  to  see,  for  her  own  private  de 
lectation,  a  weak  point  in  Miss  Buckston's  iron-clad  per 
sonality  to  remember  how  very  funny  she  could  look. 
Among  the  serried  ranks  of  singing  heads  hers  had  stood 
out  with  its  rubicund  energy,  its  air  of  mastery,  the 
shining  of  its  eye-glasses  and  of  its  large  white  teeth; 
and  while  she  sang  Miss  Buckston  had  jerked  her  head 
rhythmically  to  one  side  and  beaten  time  with  her  hand 
as  if  to  encourage  and  direct  her  less  competent  com 
panions.  Sometimes,  now,  she  looked  almost  as  funny, 
when  she  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  gave  forth  a  recita 
tive. 

After  Bach,  "Woman's  Suffrage  was  Miss  Buckston's 
special  theme,  and,  suspecting  a  new  hint  of  uncertainty 
in  Althea,  whose  conviction  she  had  always  taken  for 
granted,  she  attacked  her  frequently  and  mercilessly. 

''Pooh,  my  dear,"  she  would  say,  "don't  quote  your 
frothy  American  women  to  me.  Americans  have  no 
social  conscience.  That  's  the  trouble  with  you  all ;  rank 
individualists,  every  one  of  you.  When  the  political 
attitude  of  the  average  citizen  is  that  of  the  ostrich  keep 
ing  his  head  in  the  sand  so  that  he  shan't  see  what  the 
country  's  coming  to,  what  can  you  expect  of  the  women  ? 
Your  arguments  don't  affect  the  suffrage,  they  merely 
dismiss  America.  I  shall  lose  my  temper  if  you  trot 
them  out  to  me."  Miss  Buckston  never  lost  her  temper, 
however;  other  people's  opinions  counted  too  little  with 
her  for  that. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  Althea  felt  distinctly  that 
though  the  country,  even  under  these  dismal  climatic 


78  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

conditions,  might  be  delightful  if  shared  with  some  peo 
ple,  it  was  not  delightful  shared  with  Miss  Buckston. 
She  did  not  like  walking  in  the  rain ;  she  was  a  creature 
of  houses,  cabs  and  carriages.  The  sober  beauty  of 
blotted  silhouettes,  and  misty,  rolling  hills  at  evening 
when  the  clouds  lifted  over  the  sunset,  did  not  appeal  to 
her.  She  wished  that  she  had  stayed  in  London;  she 
wished  that  Helen  and  Mr.  Digby  were  with  her ;  she  was 
even  glad  that  Aunt  Julia  and  the  girls  were  coming. 

There  was  a  welcome  diversion  afforded  for  her,  when 
Aunt  Julia  came,  by  the  prompt  hostility  that  declared 
itself  between  her  and  Miss  Buckston.  Aunt  Julia  was 
not  a  person  to  allow  a  steam-roller  to  pass  over  her  with 
out  protest,  and  Althea  felt  that  she  herself  had  been 
cowardly  when  she  saw  how  Aunt  Julia  resented,  for 
them  both,  Miss  Buckston 's  methods.  Miss  Buckston 
had  a  manner  of  saying  rude  things  in  sincere  uncon 
sciousness  that  they  could  offend  anybody.  She  herself 
did  not  take  offence  easily;  she  was,  as  she  would  have 
said, ' '  tough. ' '  But  Mrs.  Pepperell  had  all  the  sensitive 
ness — for  herself  and  for  others — of  her  race,  the  British 
race,  highly  strung  with  several  centuries  of  trans 
plantation  to  an  electric  climate.  If  she  was  rude  it  was 
never  unconsciously  so.  After  her  first  talk  with  Miss 
Buckston,  in  which  the  latter,  as  was  her  wont,  told  her 
a  number  of  unpleasant  facts  about  America  and  the 
Americans,  Mrs.  Pepperell  said  to  her  niece,  "What  an 
intolerable  woman  ! ' ' 

"She  doesn't  mean  it,"  said  Althea  feebly. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Aunt  Julia;  "but  I  intend  that 
she  shall  see  what  I  mean." 

Althea 's  feeling  was  of  mingled  discomfort  and  satis- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  79 

faction.  Her  sympathies  were  with  Aunt  Julia,  yet  she 
felt  a  little  guilty  towards  Miss  Buckston,  for  whom  her 
affection  was  indeed  wavering.  Inner  loyalty  having 
failed  she  did  not  wish  outer  loyalty  to  be  suspected,  and 
in  all  the  combats  that  took  place  she  kept  in  the  back 
ground  and  only  hoped  to  see  Aunt  Julia  worst  Miss 
Buckston.  But  the  trouble  was  that  Aunt  Julia  never 
did  worst  her.  Even  when,  passing  beyond  the  bounds 
of  what  she  considered  decency,  she  became  nearly  as 
outspoken  as  Miss  Buckston,  that  lady  maintained  her 
air  of  cheerful  yet  impatient  tolerance.  She  continued 
to  tell  them  that  the  American  wife  and  mother  was  the 
most  narrow,  the  most  selfish,  the  most  complacent  of  all 
wives  and  mothers ;  and,  indeed,  to  Miss  Buckston 's  vig 
orous  virginity,  all  wives  and  mothers,  though  sociologic 
ally  necessary,  belonged  to  a  slightly  inferior,  more 
rudimentary  species.  The  American  variety,  she  said, 
were  immersed  in  mere  domesticity  or  social  schemes 
and  squabbles.  "Oh,  they  talked.  I  never  heard  so 
much  talk  in  all  my  life  as  when  I  was  over  there,"  said 
Miss  Buckston;  "but  I  couldn't  see  that  they  got  any 
thing  done  with  it.  They  had  debates  about  health,  and 
yet  one  could  hardly  for  love  or  money  get  a  window 
open  in  a  train;  and  they  had  debates  on  the  ethics  of 
citizenship,  and  yet  you  are  governed  by  bosses. 
Voluble  and  inefficient  creatures,  I  call  them." 

Aunt  Julia,  conscious  of  her  own  honourable  career, 
with  its  achievements  in  enlightened  philanthropy  and 
its  background  of  careful  study,  heard  this  with  inex 
pressible  ire ;  but  when  she  was  dragged  to  the  execrable 
taste  of  a  retaliation,  and  pointed  to  the  British  country 
side  matron,  as  they  saw  her  at  Merriston — a  creature, 


80  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

said  Aunt  Julia,  hardly  credible  in  her  complacency 
and  narrowness,  Miss  Buckston  rejoined  with  an  un 
ruffled  smile:  "Ah,  we  '11  wake  them  up.  They  've 
good  stuff  in  them — good,  staying  stuff ;  and  they  do  a  lot 
of  useful  work  in  keeping  down  Eadicalism  and  keeping 
up  the  sentiment  of  our  imperial  responsibilities  and 
traditions.  They  are  solid,  at  all  events,  not  hollow." 
And  to  this  poor  Aunt  Julia,  whose  traditions  did  not 
allow  her  the  retort  of  sheer  brutality,  could  find  no 
answer. 

The  absurd  outcome  of  the  situation  was  that  Althea 
and  Aunt  Julia  came  to  look  for  succour  to  the  girls. 
The  girls  were  able — astonishingly  so,  to  cope  with  Miss 
Buckston.  In  the  first  place,  they  found  her  inexpress 
ibly  funny,  and  neither  Althea  nor  Aunt  Julia  quite 
succeeded  at  that;  and  in  the  second,  they  rather  liked 
her;  they  did  not  argue  with  her,  they  did  not  take  her 
seriously  for  a  moment;  they  only  played  buoyantly 
about  her.  A  few  months  before,  Althea  would  have 
been  gravely  disturbed  by  their  lack  of  reverence;  she 
saw  it  now  with  guilty  satisfaction.  Miss  Buckston, 
among  the  nets  they  spread  for  her,  plunged  and  floun 
dered  like  a  good-tempered  bull — at  first  with  guileless 
acquiescence  in  the  game,  and  then  with  growing  be 
wilderment.  They  flouted  gay  cloaks  before  her  dizzy 
eyes,  and  planted  ribboned  darts  in  her  quivering 
shoulders.  Even  Althea  could  not  accuse  them  of  ag 
gressiveness  or  rudeness.  They  never  put  themselves 
forward;  they  were  there  already.  They  never  twisted 
the  tail  of  the  British  lion;  they  never  squeezed  the 
eagle ;  they  were  far  too  secure  under  his  wings  for  that. 
The  bird,  indeed,  had  grown  since  Althea 's  youth,  and 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  81 

could  no  longer  be  carried  about  as  a  hostile  trophy. 
They  took  it  for  granted,  gaily  and  kindly,  that  America 
was  "God's  country,"  and  that  all  others  were  schools 
or  playgrounds  for  her  children.  They  were  filled  with 
a  confident  faith  in  her  future  and  in  their  own  part 
in  making  that  future  better.  And  something  in  the 
faith  was  infectious.  Even  Miss  Buckston  felt  it.  Miss 
Buckston  felt  it,  indeed,  more  than  Althea,  whose  atti 
tude  towards  her  own  native  land  had  always  been  one 
of  affectionate  apology. 

"Nice  creatures,"  said  Miss  Buckston,  "undisciplined 
and  mannerless  as  they  are;  but  that  's  a  failing  they 
share  with  our  younger  generation.  I  see  more  hope  for 
your  country  in  that  type  than  in  anything  else  you  can 
show  me.  They  are  solid,  and  don 't  ape  anything. ' ' 

So  by  degrees  a  species  of  friendship  grew  up  between 
Miss  Buckston  and  the  girls,  who  said  that  she  was  a 
jolly  old  thing,  and  more  fun  than  a  goat,  especially 
when  she  sang  Bach.  Mildred  and  Dorothy  sang  ex 
ceptionally  well  and  were  highly  equipped  musicians. 

Althea  could  not  have  said  why  it  was,  but  this  prog 
ress  to  friendliness  between  her  cousins  and  Miss  Bucks- 
ton  made  her  feel,  as  she  had  felt  in  the  Paris  hotel 
drawing-room  over  a  month  ago,  jaded  and  unsuccessful. 
So  did  the  fact  that  the  vicar's  eldest  son,  a  handsome 
young  soldier  with  a  low  forehead  and  a  loud  laugh,  fell 
in  love  with  Dorothy.  That  young  men  should  fall  in 
love  with  them  was  another  of  the  pleasant  things  that 
Mildred  and  Dorothy  took  for  granted.  Their  love  af 
fairs,  frank  and  rather  infantile,  were  of  a  very  different 
calibre  from  the  earnest  passions  that  Althea  had  aroused 
— passions  usually  initiated  by  intellectual  sympathy  and 

6 


82  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

nourished  on  introspection  and  a  constant  interchange 
of  serious  literature. 

It  was  soon  evident  that  Dorothy,  though  she  and 
Captain  Merton  became  the  best  of  friends,  had  no  in 
tention  of  accepting  him.  Mrs.  Merton,  the  vicar's  wife, 
had  at  first  been  afraid  lest  she  should,  not  having  then 
ascertained  what  Mrs.  Pepperell's  fortune  might  be;  but 
after  satisfying  herself  on  this  point  by  a  direct  cross- 
examination  of  Althea,  she  was  as  much  amazed  as  in 
censed  when  her  boy  told  her  ruefully  that  he  had  been 
refused  three  times.  Althea  was  very  indignant  when 
she  realised  that  Mrs.  Merton,  bland  and  determined  in 
her  latest  London  hat,  was  trying  to  find  out  whether 
Dorothy  was  a  good  enough  match  for  Captain  Merton, 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  wratch  Mrs.  Merton 's  subsequent 
discomfiture.  At  the  same  time,  she  felt  that  to  follow 
in  Mildred  and  Dorothy's  triumphant  wake  \vas  hardly 
what  she  had  expected  to  do  at  Merriston  House. 

Other  things,  too,  were  discouraging.  Helen  had 
hardly  written  at  all.  She  had  sent  a  post-card  from 
Scotland  to  say  that  she  would  have  to  put  off  coming 
till  later  in  August.  She  had  sent  another,  in  answer 
to  a  long  letter  of  Althea 's,  in  which  Gerald  had  been 
asked  to  come  with  her,  to  say  that  Gerald  was  yachting, 
and  that  she  was  sure  he  would  love  to  come  some  time  in 
the  autumn,  if  his  plans  allowed  it ;  and  Althea,  on  read 
ing  this,  felt  certain  that  if  she  counted  for  little  with 
Helen,  she  counted  for  nothing  with  Mr.  Digby.  Whom 
did  she  count  with?  That  was  the  question  that  once 
more  assailed  her  as  she  saw  herself  sink  into  insignifi 
cance  beside  Mildred  and  Dorothy.  If  Mildred  and 
Dorothy  counted  for  more  than  she,  where  was  she  to 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  83 

look  for  response  and  sympathy  ?  And  now,  once  again, 
as  if  in  answer  to  these  dismal  questionings,  came  a 
steamer  letter  from  Franklin  Winslow  Kane,  announcing 
his  immediate  arrival.  Althea  had  thought  very  little 
about  Franklin  in  these  last  weeks;  her  mind  had  been 
filled  with  those  foreground  figures  that  now  seemed  to 
have  become  uncertain  and  vanishing.  And  it  was  not 
so  much  that  Franklin  came  forward  as  that  there  was 
nothing  else  to  look  at;  not  so  much  that  he  counted,  as 
that  to  count  so  much,  in  every  way,  for  him  might  al 
most  atone  for  counting  with  no  one  else.  Physically, 
mentally,  morally,  Franklin's  appreciations  of  her  were 
deep ;  they  were  implied  all  through  his  letter,  which  was 
at  once  sober  and  eager.  He  said  that  he  would  stay  at 
Merriston  House  for  "just  as  long  as  ever  she  would 
let  him."  Merely  to  be  near  her  was  to  him,  separated 
as  he  was  from  her  for  so  much  of  his  life,  an  unspeak 
able  boon.  Franklin  rarely  dealt  in  demonstrative 
speeches,  but,  in  this  letter,  after  a  half-shy  prelude  to 
his  own  daring,  he  went  on  to  say :  ' '  Perhaps,  consider 
ing  how  long  it  's  been  since  I  saw  you,  you  11  let  me  kiss 
your  beautiful  hands  when  we  meet. ' ' 

Franklin  had  only  once  kissed  her  beautiful  hands, 
years  ago,  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  touched  refusal  of 
him.  She  had  severe  scruples  as  to  encouraging,  by  such 
graciousness,  a  person  you  didn't  intend  to  marry;  but 
she  really  thought,  thrilling  a  little  as  she  read  the  sen 
tence,  that  this  time,  perhaps,  Franklin  might.  Frank 
lin  himself  never  thrilled  her;  but  the  words  he  wrote 
renewed  in  her  suddenly  a  happy  self-confidence.  Who, 
after  all,  was  Franklin 's  superior  in  insight  ?  Wrapped 
in  the  garment  of  his  affection,  could  she  not  see  with 


84  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

equanimity  Helen's  vagueness  and  Gerald's  indifference? 
Why,  when  one  came  to  look  at  it  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  soul,  wasn't  Franklin  their  superior  in  every  way? 
It  needed  some  moral  effort  to  brace  herself  to  the  in 
quiry.  She  couldn't  deny  that  Franklin  hadn't  their 
charm ;  but  charm  was  a  very  superficial  thing  compared 
to  moral  beauty. 

Althea  could  not  have  faced  the  perturbing  fact  that 
charm,  to  her,  counted  for  more  than  goodness.  She 
clung  to  her  ethical  valuations  of  life,  feeling,  instinct 
ively,  that  only  in  this  category  lay  her  own  significance. 
To  abandon  the  obvious  weights  and  measures  was  to  find 
herself  buffetted  and  astray  in  a  chaotic  and  menacing 
universe.  Goodness  was  her  guide,  and  she  could  cling 
to  it  if  the  enchanting  will-o'-the-wisp  did  not  float  into 
sight  to  beckon  and  bewilder  her.  She  indignantly  re 
pudiated  the  conception  of  a  social  order  founded  on 
charm  rather  than  on  solid  worth;  yet,  like  other  frail 
mortals,  she  found  herself  following  what  allured  her 
nature  rather  than  what  responded  to  the  neatly  tabu 
lated  theories  of  her  mind.  It  was  her  beliefs  and  her 
instincts  that  couldn't  be  made  to  tally,  and  in  her  re 
fusal  to  see  that  they  did  not  tally  lay  her  danger,  as  now, 
when  with  an  artificially  simplified  attitude  she  waited 
eagerly  for  the  coming  of  somebody  who  would  restore  to 
her  her  own  sense  of  significance. 

Franklin  Winslow  Kane  arrived  late  one  afternoon, 
and  Althea  arranged  that  she  should  greet  him  alone. 
Miss  Buckston,  Aunt  Julia,  the  girls,  and  Herbert 
Vaughan  had  driven  over  to  a  neighbouring  garden- 
party,  and  Althea  alleged  the  arrival  of  her  old  friend  as 
a  very  valid  excuse.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  draw- 


85 

ing-room,  dressed  in  one  of  her  prettiest  dresses ;  the  soft 
warmth  and  light  of  the  low  sun  filled  the  air,  and  her 
heart  expanded  with  it.  She  wondered  if — ah,  if  only! 
— Franklin  would  himself  be  able  to  thrill  her,  and  her 
deep  expectation  almost  amounted  to  a  thrill.  Expecta 
tion  culminated  in  a  wave  of  excitement  and  emotion  as 
the  door  opened  and  her  faithful  lover  stood  before  her. 
Franklin  Winslow  Kane  (he  signed  himself  more  ex- 
peditiously  as  Franklin  W.  Kane)  wTas  a  small,  lean  man. 
He  had  an  air  of  tension,  constant,  yet  under  such  per 
fect  control,  that  it  counted  as  placidity  rather  than  as 
strain.  His  face  was  sallow  and  clean-shaven,  and  the 
features  seemed  neatly  drawn  on  a  flat  surface  rather 
than  modelled,  so  discreet  and  so  meagre  were  the  sallies 
and  shadows.  His  lips  were  calm  and  firmly  closed,  and 
had  always  the  appearance  of  smiling;  of  his  eyes  one 
felt  the  bright,  benignant  beam  rather  than  the  shape  or 
colour.  His  straight  stiff  hair  was  shorn  in  rather  odd 
and  rather  ugly  lines  along  his  forehead  and  temples,  and 
of  his  clothes  the  kindest  thing  to  say  was  that  they  were 
unobtrusive.  Franklin  had  once  said  of  himself,  with 
comic  dispassionateness,  that  he  looked  like  a  cheap  cigar, 
and  the  comparison  was  apt.  He  seemed  to  have  been 
dried,  pressed,  and  moulded,  neatly  and  expeditiously, 
by  some  mechanical  process  that  turned  out  thousands 
more  just  like  him.  A  great  many  things,  during  this 
process,  had  been  done  to  him,  but  they  were  common 
place,  though  complicated  things,  and  they  left  him, 
while  curiously  finished,  curiously  undifferentiated. 
The  hurrying  streets  of  any  large  town  in  his  native  land 
would,  one  felt,  be  full  of  others  like  him :  good-tempered, 
shrewd,  alert,  yet  with  an  air  of  placidity,  too,  as  though 


86  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

it  were  a  world  that  required  effort  and  vigilance  of  one, 
and  yet,  these  conditions  fulfilled,  would  always  justify 
one's  expectations.  If  differences  there  were  in  Frank 
lin  Kane,  they  were  to  be  sought  for,  they  did  not  pre 
sent  themselves ;  and  he  himself  would  have  been  the  last 
to  be  conscious  of  them.  He  didn't  think  of  himself  as 
differentiated;  he  didn't  desire  differentiation. 

He  advanced  now  towards  his  beloved,  after  a  slight 
hesitation,  for  the  sunlight  in  which  she  stood  as  well  as 
her  own  radiant  appearance  seemed  to  have  dazzled  him 
a  little.  Althea  held  out  her  hands,  and  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes ;  it  was  as  if  she  hadn  't  known,  until  then, 
how  lonely  she  was.  ' '  Oh,  Franklin,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see 
you, ' '  she  said. 

He  held  her  hands,  gazing  at  her  with  a  gentle  yet 
intent  rapture,  and  he  forgot,  in  a  daring  greater  than 
any  he  had  ever  known,  to  kiss  them.  Franklin  never 
took  anything  for  granted,  and  Althea  knew  that  it  was 
because  he  saw  her  tears  and  saw  her  emotion  that  he 
could  ask  her  now,  hesitatingly,  yet  with  sudden  confi 
dence  :  ' '  Althea,  it  's  been  so  long — you  are  so  lovely — 
it  will  mean  nothing  to  you,  I  know;  so  may  I  kiss 
you?" 

Put  like  that,  why  shouldn  't  he  ?  Conscience  had  not 
a  qualm,  and  Franklin  had  never  seemed  so  dear  to  her. 
She  smiled  a  sisterly  benison  upon  his  request,  and,  still 
holding  her  hands,  he  leaned  to  her  and  kissed  her. 
Closing  her  eyes  she  wondered  intently  for  a  moment, 
able,  in  the  midst  of  her  emotion,  to  analyse  it ;  for,  yes, 
it  had  thrilled  her.  She  needed  to  be  kissed,  were  it  only 
Franklin  who  kissed  her. 

They  went,  hand  in  hand,  to  a  sofa,  and  there  she  was 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  87 

able  to  show  him  only  the  sisterly  benignity  that  he  knew 
so  well.  She  questioned  him  sweetly  about  his  voyage, 
his  health,  his  relatives — his  only  near  relative  was  a 
sister  who  taught  in  a  college — and  about  their  mutual 
friends  and  his  work.  To  all  he  replied  carefully  and 
calmly,  though  looking  at  her  delightedly  while  he  spoke. 
He  had  a  very  deliberate,  even  way  of  speaking,  and  in 
certain  words  so  broadened  the  a's  that,  almost  doubled 
in  length  by  this  treatment,  they  sounded  like  little 
bleats.  His  "yes"  was  on  two  notes  and  became  a 
dissyllable. 

After  he  had  answered  all  her  questions  he  took  up  the 
thread  himself.  He  had  tactfully  relinquished  her  hand 
at  a  certain  moment  in  her  talk.  Althea  well  remem 
bered  his  sensitiveness  to  any  slightest  mood  in  herself ; 
he  was  wonderfully  imaginative  when  it  came  to  any 
human  relation.  He  did  not  wrait  for  her  to  feel  con 
sciously  that  it  was  not  quite  fitting  that  her  hand  should 
be  held  for  so  long. 

"This  is  a  nice  old  place  you  've  got,  Althea,"  he  said, 
looking  about.  "Homelike  and  welcoming.  I  liked  the 
look  of  it  as  I  drove  up.  Have  you  a  lot  of  English  peo 
ple  with  you?" 

"Only  one;  Miss  Buckston,  you  know.  Aunt  Julia 
and  the  girls  are  here,  and  Herbert  Vaughan,  their 
friend.  You  know  Herbert  Vaughan ;  such  a  nice  young 
creature;  his  mother  is  a  Bostonian." 

"I  know  about  him;  I  don't  know  him,"  said  Frank 
lin,  who  indeed,  as  she  reflected,  would  not  be  likely  to 
have  met  the  fashionable  Herbert.  "And  where  is  that 
attractive  new  friend  of  yours  you  wrote  to  me  about — 
the  one  you  took  care  of  in  Paris — the  Scotch  lady  ? ' ' 


' '  Helen  Buchanan  ?  She  is  coming ;  she  is  in  Scotland 
now. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  she  's  coming.     I  am  to  see  her,  I  hope. ' ' 

"You  are  to  see  everybody,  dear  Franklin,"  said  Al- 
thea,  smiling  upon  him.  "You  are  to  stay,  you  knoV, 
for  as  long  as  you  will. ' ' 

"That  's  sweet  of  you,  Althea."  He  looked  at  her. 
Her  kindness  still  buoyed  him  above  his  wonted  level. 
He  had  never  allowed  himself  to  become  utterly  hopeless, 
yet  he  had  become  almost  resigned  to  hope  deferred;  a 
pressing,  present  hope  grew  in  him  now.  ' '  But  it  's  am 
biguous,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  smiling  back.  "If  I  'm 
to  stay  as  long  as  I  will,  I  'm  never  to  leave  you,  you 
know." 

Hope  was  becoming  to  Franklin.  Althea  felt  herself 
colouring  a  little  under  his  eyes.  "You  still  feel  that?" 
she  said  rather  feebly. 

"I  '11  always  feel  that." 

"It  's  very  wonderful  of  you,  Franklin.  It  makes  me, 
sometimes,  feel  guilty,  as  though  I  kept  you  from  fuller 
happiness." 

' '  You  can 't  do  that.  You  are  the  only  person  who  can 
give  me  fuller  happiness. ' ' 

"And  I  give  you  happiness,  like  this — even  like  this? 
—really?" 

"Of  course;  but,"  he  smiled  a  little  forcedly,  "I  can't 
pretend  it  's  anything  like  what  I  want.  I  want  a  great 
deal." 

Althea 's  eyes  fell  before  the  intent  and  gentle  gaze. 

"  Dear  Franklin — I  wish ' 

"You  wish  you  could?     I  wonder — I  wonder,  Althea, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  89 

if  you  feel  a  little  nearer  to  it  just  now.  I  seem  to  feel, 
myself,  that  you  are. ' ' 

Was  she?  How  she  wished  she  were.  Yet  the  wish 
was  mixed  with  fear.  She  said,  faltering,  "Don't  ask 
me  now.  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you — so  glad;  but  that  's 
not  the  same  thing,  is  it?" 

"It  may  be  on  the  way  to  it." 

"May  it?"  she  sighed  tremblingly. 

There  was  a  silence ;  and  then,  taking  her  hand  again, 
he  again  kissed  it,  and  holding  it  for  an  insistent  moment 
said,  "Althea,  won't  you  try  being  engaged  to  me?" 

She  said  nothing,  turning  away  her  face. 

' '  You  might  make  a  habit  of  loving  me,  you  know, ' '  he 
went  on  half  whimsically.  "No  one  would  know  any 
thing  about  it.  It  would  be  our  secret,  our  little  experi 
ment.  If  only  you  'd  try  it.  Dearest,  I  do  love  you  so 
deeply." 

And  then — how  it  was  she  did  not  know,  but  it  was 
again  Franklin's  words  rather  than  Franklin  that  moved 
her,  so  that  he  must  have  seen  the  yielding  to  his  love, 
if  not  to  him,  in  her  face — she  was  in  his  arms,  and  he 
was  kissing  her  and  saying,  "Oh,  Althea,  won't  you 
try?" 

Althea 's  mind  whirled.  She  needed  to  be  kissed ;  that 
alone  was  evident;  for  she  did  not  draw  away;  but  the 
tears  came,  of  perplexity  and  pathos,  and  she  said, 
"Franklin,  dear  Franklin,  I  '11  try — I  mean,  I  '11  try  to 
be  in  love  with  you — I  can't  be  engaged,  not  really  en 
gaged — but  I  will  try. ' ' 

"Darling — you  are  nearer  it " 

"Yes — I  don't  know,  Franklin — I  mustn't  bind  my- 


90 

self.     I  can't  marry  you  unless  I  am  in  love  with  you — 
can  I,  Franklin?'* 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Franklin,  his 
voice  a  little  shaken.  "You  can't  expect  me  to  give 
you  an  impartial  answer  to  that  now — can  you,  dear  ?  I 
feel  as  if  I  wanted  you  to  marry  me  on  the  chance  you  'd 
come  to  love  me.  And  you  do  care  for  me  enough  for 
this,  don't  you?  That  in  itself  is  such  an  incredible 
gift." 

Yes,  she  evidently  cared  for  him  enough  for  this ;  and 
"this"  meant  his  arm  about  her,  her  hand  in  his,  his  eyes 
of  devotion  upon  her,  centre  of  his  universe  as  she  was. 
And  "this"  had,  after  years  of  formality,  incredibly 
indeed  altered  all  their  relation.  But — to  marry  him — 
it  meant  all  sorts  of  other  things ;  it  meant  definitely  giv 
ing  up;  it  meant  definitely  taking  on.  What  it  meant 
taking  on  was  Franklin's  raylessness,  Franklin's  ob 
scurity,  Franklin's  dun-colour — could  a  wife  escape  the 
infection?  What  it  meant  giving  up  was  more  vague, 
but  it  floated  before  her  as  the  rose-coloured  dream  of  her 
youth — the  hero,  the  earnest,  ardent  hero,  who  was  to 
light  all  life  to  rapture  and  significance.  And,  absurdly, 
while  the  drift  of  glamour  and  regret  floated  by,  and 
while  she  sat  with  Franklin 's  arm  about  her,  her  hand  in 
his,  it  seemed  to  shape  itself  for  a  moment  into  the  gay, 
irresponsible  face  of  Gerald  Digby.  Absurd,  indeed; 
he  was  neither  earnest  nor  ardent,  and  if  he  were  he 
would  never  feel  earnestness  or  ardour  on  her  account. 
Franklin  certainly  responded,  in  that  respect,  to  the  re 
quirements  of  her  dream.  Yet — ah,  yet — he  responded 
in  no  other.  It  was  not  enough  to  have  eyes  only  for  her. 
A  hero  should  draw  other's  eyes  upon  him;  should  have 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  91 

rays  that  others  could  recognise.  Althea  was  troubled, 
and  she  was  also  ashamed  of  herself,  but  whether  because 
of  that  vision  of  Gerald  Digby,  or  whether  because  she 
was  allowing  Franklin  privileges  never  allowed  before, 
she  did  not  know.  Only  the  profundity  of  reverence 
that  beamed  upon  her  from  Franklin's  eyes  enabled  her 
to  regain  her  self-respect. 

Smiling  a  little  constrainedly,  she  drew  her  hand  from 
his  and  rose.  "I  mustn't  bind  myself,"  she  repeated, 
standing  with  downcast  eyes  before  him,  "but  I  '11  try; 
indeed,  I  '11  try." 

' '  You  want  to  be  in  love  with  me,  if  only  you  can  man 
age  it,  don 't  you,  dear  ? "  he  questioned ;  and  to  this  she 
could  truthfully  reply,  "Yes,  dear  Franklin,  I  want  to 
be  in  love  with  you. ' ' 


CHAPTER  X 

ALTHEA  found,  as  she  had  hoped,  that  her  whole 
situation  was  altered  by  the  arrival  of  her  suitor. 
A  woman  boasting  the  possession  of  even  the  most  rayless 
of  that  species  is  in  a  very  different  category  from  the 
woman  as  mere  unsought  unit.  As  unit  she  sinks  easily 
into  the  background,  is  merged  with  other  unemphatic 
things,  but  as  sought  she  is  always  in  the  foreground,  not 
only  in  her  own,  but  in  other's  eyes.  Be  she  ever  so  un- 
noticeable,  she  then  gains,  at  least,  the  compliment  of 
conjecture.  The  significance  of  her  personal  drama  has 
a  universal  interest ;  the  issues  of  her  situation  are  those 
that  appeal  forcibly  to  all. 

Althea  and  her  steady,  sallow  satellite,  became  the 
centre  of  a  watchful  circle ;  watchful  and  kindly.  Even 
to  others  her  charms  became  more  apparent,  as,  indeed, 
they  were  more  actual.  To  be  loved  and  to  live  in  the 
presence  of  the  adorer  is  the  most  beautifying  of  circum 
stances.  Althea  bloomed  under  it.  Her  eyes  became 
larger,  s\veeter.  sadder;  her  lips  softer;  the  mild  fever 
of  her  indecision  and  of  her  sense  of  power  burned  dimly 
in  her  cheeks.  As  the  centre  of  watchfulness  she  gained 
the  grace  of  self-confidence. 

Aunt  Julia,  observant  and  shrewd,  smiled  with  half- 
ironic  satisfaction.  She  had  felt  sure  that  Althea  must 
come  to  this,  and  ' '  this, ' '  she  considered  as  on  the  whole 
fortunate  for  Althea.  Anything,  Aunt  Julia  thought, 

92 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  93 

was  better  than  to  become  a  wandering  old  maid,  and  she 
had,  moreover,  the  highest  respect  for  Franklin  Winslow 
Kane.  As  a  suitor  for  one  of  her  own  girls  he  would,  of 
course,  have  been  impossible ;  but  her  girls  she  placed  in 
a  different  category  from  Althea ;  they  had  the  rights  of 
youth,  charm,  and  beauty. 

The  girls,  for  their  part,  though  seeing  Franklin  as  a 
fair  object  for  chaff,  conceived  of  him  as  wholly  suitable. 
Though  they  chaffed  him,  they  never  did  so  to  his  disad 
vantage,  and  they  were  respectful  spectators  of  his  en 
terprise.  They  had  the  nicest  sense  of  loyalty  for 
serious  situations. 

And  Miss  Buckston  was  of  all  the  most  satisfactory  in 
her  attitude.  Her  contempt  for  the  disillusions  and  im 
pediments  of  marriage  could  not  prevent  her  from  feel 
ing  an  altogether  new  regard  for  a  person  to  whom 
marriage  was  so  obviously  open;  moreover,  she  thought 
Mr.  Kane  highly  interesting.  She  at  once  informed  Al 
thea  that  she  always  found  American  men  vastly  the 
superior  in  achievement  and  energy  to  the  much-vaunted 
American  woman,  and  Althea  was  not  displeased.  She 
was  amused  but  gratified,  when  Miss  Buckston  told  her 
what  were  Franklin's  good  qualities,  and  said  that 
though  he  had  many  foolish  democratic  notions,  he  was 
more  worth  while  talking  to  than  any  man  she  had  met 
for  a  long  time.  She  took  every  opportunity  for  talking 
to  him  about  sociology,  science,  and  international  themes, 
and  Althea  even  became  a  little  irked  by  the  frequency 
of  these  colloquies  and  tempted  sometimes  to  withdraw 
Franklin  from  them;  but  the  subtle  flattery  that  Miss 
Buckston 's  interest  in  Franklin  offered  to  herself  was  too 
acceptable  for  her  to  yield  to  such  impulses.  Yes,  Frank- 


94  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

lin  had  a  right  to  his  air  of  careful  elation ;  she  had  never 
been  so  near  it.  She  had  not  again  allowed  him  to  kiss 
her — she  was  still  rather  ashamed  wrhen  she  remembered 
how  often  she  had,  on  that  one  occasion,  allowed  him  to 
kiss  her;  yet,  in  spite  of  her  swift  stepping  back  to  dis 
cretion,  she  had  never  in  all  her  life  been  so  near  to  say 
ing  "yes"  to  Franklin  as  during  the  eight  or  ten  days 
after  his  arrival.  And  the  fact  that  a  third  post-card 
from  Helen  expressed  even  further  vagueness  as  to  the 
chance  of  Gerald's  being  able  to  be  with  them  that  au 
tumn  at  Merriston,  added  to  the  sense  of  inevitability. 
Althea  had  been  for  this  time  so  absorbed  in  Franklin, 
his  effect  on  others  and  on  herself,  that  she  had  not  felt, 
as  she  would  otherwise  have  done,  Helen 's  unsatisfactory 
attitude.  Helen  was  at  last  coming,  and  she  was  flut 
tered  at  the  thought  of  her  coming,  but  she  was  far  more 
able  to  cope  with  Helen;  there  was  more  self  to  do  it 
with;  she  wras  stronger,  more  independent  of  Helen's 
opinion  and  of  Helen's  affection.  But  dimly  she  felt  also 
— hardly  aware  she  felt  it — that  she  was  a  more  effective 
self  as  the  undecided  recipient  of  Franklin's  devotion 
than  as  his  affianced  wife.  A  rayless  person,  it  seemed, 
could  crown  one  with  beams  as  long  as  one  maintained 
one's  distance  from  him ;  merged  with  him  one  shared  his 
insignificance.  To  accept  Franklin  might  be  to  shear 
them  both  of  all  the  radiance  they  borrowed  from  each 
other. 

Helen  arrived  on  a  very  hot  evening  in  mid- August. 
She  had  lost  the  best  train,  which  brought  one  to  Mer 
riston  at  tea-time — Althea  felt  that  Helen  was  the  sort 
of  person  who  would  always  lose  the  best  train — and 
after  a  tedious  journey,  with  waits  and  changes  at  hot 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  95 

stations,  she  received  her  friend's  kisses  just  as  the  dress 
ing-bell  for  dinner  sounded.  Helen,  standing  among 
her  boxes,  while  Amelie  hurriedly  got  out  her  evening 
things,  looked  extremely  tired,  and  felt,  Althea  was  sure, 
extremely  ill-tempered.  It  was  characteristic  of  Helen, 
she  knew  it  intuitively,  to  feel  ill-temper,  and  yet  to  have 
it  so  perfectly  under  control  that  it  made  her  manner 
sweeter  than  usual.  Her  sense  of  social  duty  never 
failed  her,  and  it  did  not  in  the  least  fail  her  now  as  she 
smiled  at  Althea,  and,  while  she  drank  the  cup  of  tea 
that  had  been  brought  to  her,  gave  an  account  of  her  mis 
fortunes.  She  had  arrived  in  London  from  Scotland  the 
night  before,  spent  two  hours  of  the  morning  in  frantic 
shopping — the  shops  like  ovens  and  the  London  pave 
ments  exhaling  a  torrid  heat;  had  found,  on  getting 
back  to  Aunt  Grizel's — Aunt  Grizel  was  away — that  the 
silly  maid  had  muddled  all  her  packing;  then,  late  al 
ready,  had  hurled  herself  into  a  cab,  and  observed,  half 
way  to  the  station,  that  the  horse  was  on  the  point  of 
collapse ;  had  changed  cabs  and  had  arrived  at  the  station 
to  see  her  train  just  going  out.  "So  there  I  paced  up 
and  down  like  a  caged,  suffocating  lioness  for  over  an 
hour,  had  a  loathsome  lunch,  and  read  half  a  dozen 
papers  before  my  train  started.  I  came  third  class  with 
a  weary  mother  and  two  babies,  the  sun  beat  in  all  the 
way,  and  I  had  three  changes.  I  'm  hardly  fit  to  be  seen, 
and  not  fit  to  speak.  But,  yes,  I  '11  have  a  bath  and  come 
down  in  time  for  something  to  eat.  I  'd  rather  come 
down;  please  don't  wait  for  me." 

They  did,  however,  and  she  was  very  late.  The  win 
dows  in  the  drawing-room  were  widely  open  to  the  even 
ing  air,  and  the  lamps  had  not  yet  been  lit;  and  when 


96  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Helen  came  she  made  Althea  think  a  little  of  a  beautiful 
grey  moth,  hovering  vaguely  in  the  dusk. 

Captain  Merton  dined  with  them  that  evening,  and 
young  Harry  Evans,  son  of  a  neighbouring  squire ;  and 
Herbert  Vaughan  was  still  at  Merriston,  the  masculine 
equivalent  of  Mildred  and  Dorothy,  an  exquisitely  ap 
pointed  youth,  frank  and  boisterous,  with  charming,  can 
did  eyes,  and  the  figure  of  an  Adonis.  These  young 
men's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Helen  as  they  took  their 
places  at  the  dinner-table,  though  not  altogether,  Althea 
perceived,  with  admiration.  Helen,  wherever  she  was, 
would  always  be  centre ;  things  and  people  grouped  them 
selves  about  her;  she  made  the  picture,  and  she  was  the 
focus  of  interest.  Why  was  it?  Althea  wondered,  as, 
with  almost  a  mother 's  wistful  pleasure,  she  watched  her 
friend  and  watched  the  others  watch  her.  Pale,  jaded, 
in  her  thin  grey  dress,  haggard  and  hardly  beautiful, 
Helen  was  full  of  apathetic  power,  and  Helen  was  in 
terested  in  nobody.  It  was  Althea 's  pride  to  trace  out 
reasons  and  to  see  in  what  Helen's  subjugating  quality 
consisted.  Franklin  had  taken  Helen  in,  and  she  herself 
sat  at  some  distance  from  them,  her  heart  beating  fast  as 
she  wondered  what  Helen  would  think  of  him.  She 
could  not  hear  what  they  said,  but  she  could  see  that  they 
talked,  though  not  eagerly.  Helen  had,  as  usual,  the  air 
of  giving  her  attention  to  anything  put  before  her.  One 
never  could  tell  in  the  least  what  she  really  thought  of  it. 
She  smiled  with  pale  lips  and  weary  eyes  upon  Franklin, 
listened  to  him  gravely  and  with  concentration,  and, 
when  she  did  speak,  it  was,  once  or  twice,  with  gaiety, 
as  though  he  had  amused  and  surprised  her.  Yet  Althea 
felt  that  her  thoughts  were  far  from  Franklin,  far  from 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  97 

everybody  in  the  room.  And  meanwhile,  of  everybody 
in  the  room,  it  was  the  lean,  sallow  young  man  beside 
her  who  seemed  at  once  the  least  impressed  and  the  most 
interested.  But  that  was  so  like  Franklin ;  no  one  could 
outdo  him  in  interest,  and  no  one  could  outdo  him  in 
placidity.  That  he  could  examine  Helen  with  his  calm, 
careful  eye,  as  though  she  were  an  object  for  mental  and 
moral  appraisement  only;  that  he  could  see  her  so 
acutely,  and  yet  remain  so  unmoved  by  her  rarity,  at 
once  pleased  and  displeased  Althea.  It  showed  him  as 
so  safe,  but  it  showed  him  as  so  narrow.  She  found  her 
self  thinking  almost  impatiently  that  Franklin  simply 
had  no  sense  of  charm  at  all.  Helen  interested  him,  but 
she  did  not  stir  in  him  the  least  wistfulness  or  wonder, 
as  charm  should  do.  Miss  Buckston  interested  him, 
too.  And  she  was  very  sure  that  Franklin  while  liking 
Helen  as  a  human  creature — so  he  liked  Miss  Buckston — 
disapproved  of  her  as  a  type.  Of  course,  he  must  disap 
prove  of  her.  Didn't  she  contradict  all  the  things  he 
approved  of — all  the  laboriousness,  the  earnestness,  the 
tolerant  bias  towards  the  views  and  feelings  of  the  major 
ity?  And  Althea  felt,  with  a  rather  sharp  satisfaction, 
that  it  would  give  her  some  pleasure  to  show  Franklin 
that  she  differed  from  him ;  that  she  had  other  tastes  than 
his,  other  needs — needs  which  Helen  more  than  satisfied. 
She  had  no  opportunity  that  night  for  fathoming 
Helen's  impressions  of  Franklin,  and  indeed  felt  that  the 
task  was  a  delicate  one  to  undertake.  If  Helen  didn't 
volunteer  them  she  could  hardly  ask  for  them.  Loyalty 
to  Franklin  and  to  the  old  bond  between  them,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  new,  made  it  unfit  that  Helen  should  know 
that  her  impressions  of  Franklin  were  of  any  weight  with 


98  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

her  friend.  But  the  next  morning  Helen  did  not  come 
down  to  breakfast,  and  there  was  no  reason  why,  in  a 
stroll  round  the  garden  with  Franklin  afterwards,  she 
should  not  be  point  blank ;  the  only  unfairness  here  was 
that  in  his  opinion  of  Helen  it  would  not  be  Helen  he 
judged,  but  himself. 

"How  do  you  like  her,  my  new  friend?"  she  asked. 

Franklin  was  very  willing  to  talk  and  had  already 
clear  impressions.  The  clearest  was  the  one  he  put  at 
once  before  her  in  the  vernacular  he  had  never  taken  the 
least  pains  to  modify.  ' '  She  looks  sick ;  I  'd  be  worried 
about  her  if  I  were  you.  Can 't  you  rouse  her  ? ' ' 

"Rouse  her?  She  is  always  like  that.  Only  she  was 
particularly  tired  last  night." 

"A  healthy  young  woman  oughtn't  to  get  so  tired.  If 
she  's  always  like  that  she  always  needs  rousing." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Franklin.  What  do  you 
mean  ? ' ' 

"Why,  I  'm  perfectly  serious.  I  think  she  looks  sick. 
She  ought  to  take  tonics  and  a  lot  of  outdoor  exercise. ' ' 

"Is  that  all  that  you  can  find  to  say  about  her?"  Al- 
thea  asked,  half  amused  and  half  indignant. 

"Why  no,"  Franklin  replied.  "I  think  she  's  very 
attractive;  she  has  a  great  deal  of  poise.  Only  she  's 
half  alive.  I  'd  like  to  see  her  doing  something. ' ' 

"It  's  enough  for  her  to  be,  I  think. ' ' 

"Enough  for  you,  perhaps;  but  is  it  enough  for  her? 
She  'd  be  a  mighty  lot  happier  if  she  had  some  work." 

"Really,  Franklin,  you  are  absurd,"  said  Althea 
laughing.  ' '  There  is  room  in  the  world,  thank  goodness, 
for  other  people  besides  people  who  work." 

' '  Oh  no,  there  isn  't ;  not  really.     The  trouble  with  the 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  99 

world  is  that  they  're  here  and  have  to  be  taken  care  of ; 
there  's  not  room  for  them.  It  's  lovely  of  you  to  care  so 
much  about  her,"  he  went  on,  turning  his  bright  gaze 
upon  her.  "I  see  how  you  care  for  her.  It  's  because 
of  that — for  her  sake,  you  know — what  it  can  mean  to  her 
— that  I  emphasise  the  side  that  needs  looking  after. 
You  look  after  her,  Althea ;  that  '11  be  the  best  thing  that 
can  happen  to  her." 

With  all  his  acuteness,  how  guileless  he  was,  the  dear ! 
She  saw  herself  ' '  looking  after ' '  Helen ! 

"You  might  have  a  great  deal  of  influence  on  her," 
Franklin  added. 

Althea  struggled  for  a  moment  with  her  pride.  She 
liked  Franklin  to  have  this  high  opinion  of  her  minister 
ing  powers,  and  yet  she  liked  even  more  to  have  the  com 
fort  of  confiding  in  him;  and  she  was  willing  to  add  to 
Helen's  impressiveness  at  the  expense  of  her  own. 
"I  've  no  influence  with  her,"  she  said.  "I  never  shall 
have.  I  don't  believe  that  any  one  could  influence 
Helen." 

Franklin  looked  fixedly  at  her  for  some  time  as  though 
probing  what  there  must  be  of  pain  for  her  in  this 
avowal.  Then  he  said,  "That  's  too  bad.  Too  bad  for 
her,  I  mean.  You  're  all  right,  dear.  She  doesn  't  know 
what  she  misses. ' ' 

They  sat  out  on  the  lawn  that  afternoon  in  the  shade 
of  the  great  trees.  Mildred  and  Dorothy,  glittering  in 
white,  played  lawn-tennis  indefatigably  with  Herbert 
Vaughan  and  Captain  Merton.  Aunt  Julia  embroidered, 
and  Miss  Buckston  read  a  review  with  a  concentrated 
brow  and  an  occasional  ejaculation  of  disapproval. 
Helen  was  lying  prone  in  a  green  linen  chair ;  her  garden 


100  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

hat  was  bent  over  her  eyes  and  she  seemed  to  doze. 
Franklin  sat  on  the  grass  in  front  of  Althea,  just  outside 
the  radius  of  shadow,  clasping  his  thin  knees  with  his 
thin  hands.  He  looked  at  his  worst  out  of  doors,  on  a 
lawn  and  under  trees.  He  was  typically  civic.  Even 
with  his  attempts  to  adapt  his  clothes  to  rural  require 
ments,  he  was  out  of  place.  His  shoes  seemed  to  demand 
a  pavement,  and  his  thin  grey  coat  and  trousers  an  office 
stool.  Althea  also  eyed  his  tie  with  uncertainty.  He 
wasn't  right;  he  didn't  in  the  least  look  like  Herbert 
Vaughan,  who  was  elegant,  or  like  Captain  Merton,  who 
was  easy.  He  sat  out  in  the  sunlight,  undisturbed  by  it, 
though  he  screwed  up  his  features  in  a  very  unbecoming 
way  while  he  talked,  the  sun  in  his  eyes.  In  her  cool 
green  shadow,  Helen  now  and  then  opened  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  him,  and  Althea  wished  that  he  would  not  re 
main  in  so  resolutely  disadvantageous  a  situation. 

"See  here,  Althea,"  he  was  saying,  "if  you  've  gone  so 
much  into  this  matter" — the  topic  was  that  of  sweated 
industries — "I  don't  see  how  you  can  avoid  feeling  re 
sponsible — making  some  use  of  all  you  know.  I  don't 
ask  you  to  come  home  to  do  it,  though  we  need  you  and 
your  kind  badly  there,  but  you  ought  to  lend  a  hand 
here." 

"I  don't  really  think  I  could  be  of  any  use,"  said 
Althea. 

"With  all  your  knowledge  of  political  economy? 
Why,  Miss  Buckston  could  set  you  to  something  at  once. 
Knowledge  is  always  of  use,  isn  't  it,  Miss  Buckstoii  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  if  one  cares  enough  about  things  to  put  them 
through,"  said  Miss  Buckston.  "I  always  tell  Althea 
that  she  might  make  herself  very  useful  to  me." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  101 

"Exactly,"  said  Franklin.  "And  she  does  care. 
All  you  need  do,  Althea,  is  to  harness  yourself.  You 
mustn't  drift." 

"The  number  of  drifting  American  women  one  sees 
over  here!"  Miss  Buckston  ejaculated;  to  which  Frank 
lin  cheerfully  replied:  "Oh,  we  '11  work  them  all  in; 
they  are  of  use  to  us  in  their  own  way,  though  they  often 
don 't  know  it.  They  are  learning  a  lot ;  they  are  getting 
equipped.  The  country  will  get  the  good  of  it  some  day. 
Look  at  Althea,  for  instance.  You  might  say  she  drifted, 
but  she  's  been  a  hard  scholar;  I  know  it;  all  she  needs 
now  is  to  get  harnessed." 

It  was  not  lover-like  talk;  yet  what  talk,  in  its  very 
impartiality,  could  from  a  lover  be  more  gratifying? 
Althea  again  glanced  at  Helen,  but  Helen  again  seemed 
to  slumber.  Her  face  in  repose  had  a  look  of  discontent 
and  sorrow,  and  Franklin's  eyes,  following  her  own,  no 
doubt  recognised  what  she  did.  He  observed  Helen  for 
some  moments  before  returning  to  the  theme  of  efficiency. 

It  was  a  little  later  on  that  Althea 's  opportunity — 
and  crisis — came.  Aunt  Julia  had  gone  in  and  Miss 
Buckston  suggested  to  Franklin  that  he  should  take  a 
turn  with  her  before  tea.  Franklin  got  up  at  once  and 
walked  away  beside  her,  and  Althea  knew  that  his 
alacrity  was  the  greater  because  he  felt  that  by  going 
with  Miss  Buckston  he  left  her  alone  with  her  cherished 
friend.  As  he  and  Miss  Buckston  disappeared  in  the 
shrubberies,  Helen  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  them. 

' '  How  do  you  like  Miss  Buckston  now  that  you  see  her 
at  closer  quarters?"  Althea  asked,  hoping  to  approach 
the  subject  that  preoccupied  her  by  a  circuitous  method. 

Helen  smiled.     "One  hardly  likes  her  better  at  closer 


102  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

quarters,  does  one?  She  is  like  a  gun  going  off  every 
few  moments." 

Althea  smiled  too ;  she  no  longer  felt  many  qualms  of 
loyalty  on  Miss  Buckston's  behalf. 

Helen  said  no  more,  and  the  subject  was  still  unap- 
proached.  "And  how  do  you  like  Mr.  Kane?"  Althea 
now  felt  herself  forced  to  add. 

She  had  not  intended  to  use  that  casual  tone,  nearly 
the  same  tone  that  she  had  used  for  Miss  Buckston.  But 
she  had  a  dimly  apprehended  and  strongly  felt  wish  not 
to  forestall  any  verdict  of  Helen's;  to  make  sure  that 
Helen  should  have  an  open  field  for  pronouncing  her  ver 
dict  candidly.  Yet  she  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  can 
dour  of  Helen's  reply,  though  in  the  shock  that  attended 
it  she  knew  in  a  moment  that  she  had  brought  it  upon 
herself.  One  didn't  question  people  about  one's  near 
friends  in  that  casual  tone. 

"Funny  little  man,"  said  Helen. 

After  the  shock  of  it — her  worst  suspicions  confirmed 
— it  was  a  deep  qualm  that  Althea  felt,  a  qualm  in  which 
she  knew  that  something  definite  and  final  had  hap 
pened  to  her;  something  sharp  yet  vague,  all  blurred  by 
the  balmy  softness  of  the  day,  the  sense  of  physical  well- 
being,  the  beauty  of  green  branches  and  bays  of  deep 
blue  sky  above.  It  was  difficult  to  know,  for  a  moment, 
just  what  had  happened,  for  it  was  not  as  if  she  had 
ever  definitely  told  herself  that  she  intended  to  marry 
Franklin.  The  clearest  contrast  between  the  moment  of 
revelation  and  that  which  had  gone  before  lay  in  the 
fact  that  not  until  Helen  spoke  those  idle,  innocent  words 
had  she  ever  definitely  told  herself  that  she  could  never 
marry  him.  And  there  was  a  pang  in  the  knowledge, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  103 

and  with  it  a  drowsy  lassitude,  as  of  relief  and  certainty. 
The  reason  now  was  there ;  it  gazed  at  her.  Not  that  she 
couldn  't  have  seen  it  for  herself,  but  pity,  loneliness,  the 
craving  for  love  had  blinded  her.  Franklin  was  a  funny 
little  man,  and  that  was  why  she  could  not  marry  him. 
And  now,  with  the  lassitude,  the  relief  from  long  tension, 
came  a  feeling  of  cold  and  sickness. 

Helen,  baleful  in  her  unconsciousness,  had  again 
closed  her  eyes.  Althea  looked  at  her,  and  she  was 
aware  of  being  angry  with  Helen.  She  was  further 
aware  that,  since  all  was  over  for  Franklin,  she  owed  him 
something.  She  owed  it  to  him  at  least  to  make  clear 
to  Helen  that  she  didn't  place  him  wTith  Miss  Bucks- 
ton. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  " Franklin  is  funny  in  his  way.  He 
is  very  quaint  and  original  and  simple ;  but  he  is  a  dear, 
too,  you  know." 

Helen  did  not  open  her  eyes.  "I  'm  sure  he  is,"  she 
acquiesced.  Her  placid  acceptance  of  whatever  inter 
pretation  of  Mr.  Kane  Althea  should  choose  to  set  be 
fore  her,  made  Althea  still  angrier — with  herself  and 
with  Helen. 

"He  is  quite  a  noted  scientist,"  she  went  on,  keeping 
her  voice  smooth, ' '  and  has  a  very  interesting  new  theory 
about  atoms  that  's  exciting  a  good  deal  of  attention." 

Her  voice  was  too  successful;  Helen  still  suspected 
nothing.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "Really." 

"You  mustn't  judge  him  from  his  appearance,"  said 
Althea,  smiling,  for  Helen  had  now  opened  her  eyes 
and  was  looking  dreamily  at  the  lawn-tennis  players. 
"His  clothes  are  odd,  of  course;  he  doesn't  know  how 
to  dress;  but  his  eyes  are  fine;  one  sees  the  thinker  in 


104  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

them."  She  hoped  by  sacrificing  Franklin's  clothes  to 
elicit  some  appreciation  of  his  eyes.  But  Helen  merely 
acquiesced  again  with:  "Yes;  he  doesn't  know  how  to 
dress. ' ' 

"He  isn't  at  all  well  off,  you  know,"  said  Althea. 
' '  Indeed,  he  is  quite  poor.  He  spends  most  of  his  money 
on  research  and  philanthropy." 

"Ah,  well!"  Helen  commented,  "it's  extraordinary 
how  little  difference  money  makes  if  a  man  knows  how 
to  dress." 

The  thought  of  Gerald  Digby  went  like  a  dart  through 
Althea 's  mind.  He  was  poor.  She  remembered  his 
socks  and  ties,  his  general  rightness.  She  wondered 
how  much  he  spent  on  his  clothes.  She  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  struggling  with  her  trivial  and  with  her  deep 
discomfitures,  and  she  saw  the  figures  of  Miss  Buckston 
and  of  Franklin — both  so  funny,  both  so  earnest — appear 
at  the  farther  edge  of  the  lawn  engaged  in  strenuous 
converse.  Helen  looked  at  them  too,  kindly  and  indiffer 
ently.  "That  would  be  quite  an  appropriate  attach 
ment,  wouldn't  it?  "  she  remarked.  "They  seem  very 
much  interested  in  each  other,  those  two." 

Althea  grew  very  red.  Her  mind  knew  a  horrid 
wrench.  She  did  not  know  whether  it  was  in  pride  of 
possessorship,  or  shame  of  it,  or  merely  in  helpless  loyalty 
that,  after  a  pause,  she  said:  "Perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
told  you,  Helen,  that  Franklin  has  wanted  to  marry  me 
for  fifteen  years.  I  've  no  intention  of  accepting  him; 
but  no  one  can  judge  as  I  can  of  how  big  and  dear  a 
person  he  is — in  spite  of  his  funniness. "  As  she  spoke 
she  remembered — it  was  with  a  gush  of  undiluted  dis 
may — that  to  Helen  she  had  in  Paris  spoken  of  the  ' '  de- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  105 

lightf ul ' '  suitor,  the  ' '  only  one. ' '  Did  Helen  remember  ? 
And  how  could  Helen  connect  that  delightful  "one" 
with  Franklin,  and  with  her  own  attitude  towards 
Franklin  ? 

But  Helen  now  had  turned  her  eyes  upon  her,  open 
ing  them — it  always  seemed  to  be  with  difficulty  that 
she  did  it — widely.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  do  beg 
your  pardon.  You  never  gave  me  a  hint." 

How,  indeed,  could  the  Paris  memory  have  been  one? 

' '  There  wasn  't  any  hint  to  give,  exactly, ' '  said  Althea, 
blushing  more  deeply  and  trying  to  prevent  the  tears 
from  rising.  "I  'm  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  Frank 
lin.  I  never  shall  be." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Helen  replied,  full  of  solicitude. 
' '  Only,  as  you  say,  you  must  know  him  so  well ; — to  have 
him  talked  over,  quite  idly  and  ignorantly,  as  I  Ve  been 
talking. — Really,  you  ought  to  have  stopped  me." 

"There  was  no  reason  for  stopping  you.  I  can  see 
Franklin  with  perfect  detachment.  I  see  him  just  as 
you  do,  only  I  see  so  much  more.  His  devotion  to  me 
is  a  rare  thing ;  it  has  always  made  me  feel  unworthy. ' ' 

"Dear  me,  yes.  Fifteen  years,  you  say;  it  's  quite 
extraordinary,"  said  Helen. 

To  Althea  it  seemed  that  Helen's  candour  was  merci 
less,  and  revealed  her  to  herself  as  uncandid,  crooked, 
and  devious.  It  was  with  a  stronger  wish  than  ever  to 
atone  to  Franklin  that  she  persisted:  "He  is  extraor 
dinary;  that  's  what  I  mean  about  him.  I  am  devoted 
to  him.  And  my  consolation  is  that  since  I  can't  give 
him  love  he  finds  my  friendship  the  next  best  thing  in 
life." 

"Really?"  Helen  repeated.     She  was  silent  then,  evi- 


106  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

dently  not  considering  herself  privileged  to  ask  ques 
tions;  and  the  silence  was  fraught  for  Althea  with  keen 
est  discomfort.  It  was  only  after  a  long  pause  that  at 
last,  tentatively  and  delicately,  as  though  she  guessed 
that  Althea  perhaps  was  resenting  something,  and  per 
haps  wanted  her  to  ask  questions,  Helen  said:  "And 
— you  don 't  think  you  can  ever  take  him  ? ' ' 

"My  dear  Helen!  How  can  you  ask  me?  He  isn't 
a  man  to  fall  in  love  with,  is  he  ? " 

"No,  certainly  not,"  said  Helen,  smiling  a  little  con 
strainedly,  as  though  her  friend's  vehemence  struck  her 
as  slightly  excessive.  "But  he  might,  from  what  you 
tell  me,  be  a  man  to  marry." 

"I  couldn't  marry  a  man  I  was  not  in  love  with." 

"Not  if  he  were  sufficiently  in  love  with  you?  Such 
faithful  and  devoted  people  are  rare." 

"You  know,  Helen,  that,  however  faithful  and  de 
voted  he  were,  you  couldn't  fancy  yourself  marrying 
Franklin." 

Helen,  at  this  turning  of  the  tables,  looked  slightly  dis 
concerted.  "Well,  as  you  say,  I  hardly  know  him," 
she  suggested. 

' '  However  well  you  knew  him,  you  do  know  that  under 
no  circumstances  could  you  marry  him." 

"No,  I  suppose  not." 

Her  look  of  readjustment  was  inflicting  further  and 
subtler  wounds. 

' '  Can 't  I  feel  in  the  same  way  ?  ' '  said  Althea. 

Helen,  a  little  troubled  by  the  feeling  she  could  not 
interpret  in  her  friend's  voice,  hesitated  before  saying — 
as  though  in  atonement  to  Mr.  Kane  she  felt  bound  to 
put  his  case  as  favourably  as  possible :  "It  doesn 't  quite 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  107 

follow,  does  it,  that  somebody  who  would  suit  you  would 
suit  me  ?  We  are  so  different,  aren  't  we  ? " 

"Different?     How?" 

"Well,  I  could  put  up  with  a  very  inferior,  frivolous 
sort  of  person.  You  'd  have  higher  ideas  altogether. ' ' 

Althea  still  tried  to  smile.  "You  mean  that  Franklin 
is  too  high  an  idea  for  you  ? ' ' 

"Far,  far  too  high,"  said  Helen,  smiling  back. 

Franklin  and  Miss  Buckston  were  now  approaching 
them,  and  Althea  had  to  accept  this  ambiguous  result  of 
the  conversation.  One  result,  however,  was  not  am 
biguous.  She  seemed  to  see  Franklin,  as  he  came 
towards  her  over  the  thick  sward,  in  a  new  light,  a  light 
that  diminished  and  removed  him;  so  that  while  her 
heart  ached  over  him  as  it  had  never  ached,  it  yet, 
strangely,  was  hardened  towards  him,  and  almost  hostile. 
How  had  she  not  seen  for  herself,  clearly  and  finally,  that 
she  and  Helen  were  alike,  and  that  whether  it  was  that 
Franklin  was  too  high,  or  whether  it  was  that  Franklin 
was  merely  funny — for  either  or  for  both  reasons,  Frank 
lin  could  never  be  for  her. 

Her  heart  was  hard  and  aching;  but  above  everything 
else  one  hot  feeling  pulsed :  Helen  should  not  have  said 
that  he  was  funny  and  then  glided  to  the  point  where  she 
left  him  as  too  high  for  herself,  yet  not  too  high  for  her 
friend.  She  should  not  have  withdrawn  from  her  friend 
and  stranded  her  with  Franklin  Winslow  Kane. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  Miss  Buckston 
went  back  to  her  Surrey  cottage,  and  two  friends 
of  Helen's  arrived.  Helen  was  fulfilling  her  promise 
of  giving  Althea  all  the  people  she  wanted.  Lady  Pick 
ering  was  widowed,  young,  coquettish,  and  pretty;  Sir 
Charles  Brewster  a  lively  young  bachelor  with  high  eye 
brows,  upturned  tips  to  his  moustache,  and  an  air  of 
surprise  and  competence.  They  made  great  friends  at 
once  with  Mildred,  Dorothy  and  Herbert  Vaughan,  who 
shared  in  all  Sir  Charles's  hunting  and  yachting  inter 
ests.  Lady  Pickering,  after  a  day  of  tennis  and  flirta 
tion,  would  drift  at  night  into  Dorothy  and  Mildred's 
rooms  to  talk  of  dresses,  and  for  some  days  wore  her 
hair  tied  in  a  large  black  bow  behind,  reverting,  however, 
to  her  usual  dishevelled  picturesqueness.  ' '  One  needs  to 
look  as  innocent  as  a  pony  to  have  that  bow  really  suit 
one,"  she  said. 

Althea,  in  this  accession  of  new  life,  again  felt  rele 
gated  to  the  background.  Helen  did  not  join  in  the 
revels,  but  there  was  no  air  of  being  relegated  about  her ; 
she  might  have  been  the  jaded  and  kindly  queen  before 
whom  they  were  enacted.  "Dear  Helen,"  said  Lady 
Pickering  to  Mildred  and  Althea,  "I  can  see  that  she  's 
down  on  her  luck  and  very  bored  with  life.  But  it  's 
always  nice  having  her  about,  isn't  it?  Always  nice  to 
have  her  to  look  at." 

Althea  felt  that  her  guests  found  no  such  decorative 

108 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  109 

uses  for  herself,  and  that  they  took  it  for  granted  that, 
with  a  suitor  to  engage  her  attention,  she  would  be 
quite  satisfied  to  remain  outside,  even  if  above,  the  gayer 
circle.  She  could  not  deny  that  her  acceptance  of  Frank 
lin 's  devotion  before  Helen's  arrival,  their  air  of  happy 
withdrawal — a  withdrawal  that  had  then  made  them  con 
spicuous,  not  negligeable — absolutely  justified  her  guests 
in  their  over-tactfulness.  They  still  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  and  Franklin  wanted  to  be  alone  together ;  they 
still  left  them  in  an  isolation  almost  bridal;  but  now 
Althea  did  not  want  to  be  left  alone  with  Franklin,  and 
above  all  wished  to  detach  herself  from  any  bridal  asso 
ciation  ;  and  she  tormented  herself  with  accusations  con 
cerning  her  former  graciousness,  responsible  as  it  was 
for  her  present  discomfort.  She  knew  that  she  was 
very  fond  of  dear  Franklin,  and  that  she  always  would 
be  fond  of  him,  but,  with  these  accusations  crowding 
thickly  upon  her,  she  was  ill  at  ease  and  unhappy  in 
his  presence.  What  could  she  say  to  Franklin ?  "I  did, 
indeed,  deceive  myself  into  thinking  that  I  might  be 
able  to  marry  you,  and  I  let  you  see  that  I  thought  it; 
and  then  my  friend's  chance  words  showed  me  that  I 
never  could.  "What  am  I  to  think  of  myself,  Franklin  ? 
And  what  can  you  think  of  me?"  For  though  she 
could  no  longer  feel  pride  in  Franklin's  love;  though 
it  had  ceased,  since  Helen's  words,  to  have  any  decora 
tive  value  in  her  eyes,  its  practical  value  was  still  great ; 
she  could  not  think  of  herself  as  not  loved  by  Franklin. 
Her  world  would  have  rocked  without  that  foundation 
beneath  it;  and  the  fear  that  Franklin  might,  reading 
her  perplexed,  unstable  heart,  feel  her  a  person  no  longer 
to  be  loved,  was  now  an  added  complication. 


110  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"0  Franklin,  dear  Franklin!"  she  said  to  him  sud 
denly  one  day,  turning  upon  him  eyes  enlarged  by  tears, 
' '  I  feel  as  if  I  were  guilty  towards  you. ' ' 

She  almost  longed  to  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
to  pour  out  all  her  grief,  and  be  understood  and  com 
forted.  Franklin  had  not  been  slow  to  recognise  the 
change  in  his  beloved's  attitude  towards  him.  He  had 
shown  no  sign  of  grievance  or  reproach ;  he  seemed  quite 
prepared  for  her  reaction  from  the  moment  of  only 
dubious  hope,  and,  though  quite  without  humility,  to  find 
it  natural,  however  painful  to  himself,  that  Althea  should 
be  rather  bored  after  so  much  of  him.  But  the  gentle 
lighting  of  his  face  now  showed  her,  too,  that  her  ret 
icence  and  withdrawal  had  hurt  more  than  the  new  loss 
of  hope. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile  a  little  as  he 
said  it, ' '  you  mean  that  you  've  found  out  that  you  can 't, 
dear?" 

She  stood,  stricken  by  the  words  and  their  finality,  and 
she  slowly  nodded,  while  two  large  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks. 

Franklin  Kane  controlled  the  signs  of  his  own  emotion, 
which  was  deep.  "That  's  all  right,  dear,"  he  said. 
"You  're  not  guilty  of  anything.  You  Ve  been  a  little 
too  kind — more  than  you  can  keep  up,  I  mean.  It  's 
been  beautiful  of  you  to  be  kind  at  all  and  to  think  you 
might  be  kinder.  Would  you  rather  I  went  away  ?  Per 
haps  it  's  painful  to  have  me  about  just  now.  I  've  got 
a  good  many  places  I  can  go  to  while  I  'm  over  here,  you 
know.  You  mustn  't  have  me  on  your  mind. ' ' 

"0  Franklin!"  Althea  almost  sobbed;  "you  are  an 
angel.  Of  course  I  want  you  to  stay  for  as  long  as  you 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  111 

will;  of  course  I  love  to  have  you  here."  He  was  an 
angel,  indeed,  she  felt,  and  another  dart  of  hostility 
towards  Helen  went  through  her — Helen,  cynical,  un- 
spiritual,  blind  to  angels. 

So  Franklin  stayed  on,  and  the  next  day  another  guest 
arrived.  It  was  at  breakfast  that  Althea  found  at  her 
place  a  little  note  from  Gerald  Digby  asking  her  very 
prettily  if  she  could  take  him  in  that  evening.  He  was 
in  town  and  would  start  at  once  if  she  could  wire  that 
he  might  come.  Althea  controlled,  as  best  she  could,  her 
shock  of  delight.  He  had,  then,  intended  to  come ;  he 
had  not  forgotten  all  about  her.  Even  if  she  counted 
only  in  his  memory  as  tenant,  it  was  good,  she  felt  it 
helplessly  and  blissfully,  to  count  in  any  way  with 
Gerald  Digby.  She  did  not  analyse  and  hardly  recog 
nised  these  sentiments,  yet  she  strongly  felt  the  need  for 
composure,  and  it  was  only  with  an  air  of  soft  exhilara 
tion  that  she  made  the  announcement  over  the  table  to 
Helen.  "Isn't  it  nice,  Helen?  Mr.  Digby  is  coming 
this  evening. ' '  The  soft  exhilaration  could  not  be  notice 
able,  for  everybody  seemed  in  some  degree  to  share  it. 

"Dear  Gerald,  how  delightful!"  said  Lady  Pickering, 
with,  to  Althea 's  consciousness,  too  much  an  air  of  pos- 
sessorship.  "Gerald  is  a  splendid  actor,  Miss  Pep- 
erell, "  Sir  Charles  said  to  Dorothy.  "Miss  Buchanan, 
you  and  he  must  do  some  of  your  best  parts  together." 
The  girls  were  full  of  expectancy.  It  was  Helen  herself 
who  looked  least  illuminated  by  the  news;  but  then,  as 
Althea  realised,  to  Helen  Gerald  must  be  the  most  mat 
ter-of-fact  thing  in  life. 

They  were  all  sitting  under  the  trees  on  the  lawn  when 
Gerald  arrived;  he  had  not  lost  the  best  train.  Every 


112  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

one  was  in  white,  except  Helen  who  wore  black,  aiid 
Franklin  who  wore  grey;  every  one  was  lolling  on  the 
grass  or  extended  on  chairs,  except  Aunt  Julia,  erect 
and  embroidering,  and  Althea  who  was  giving  her  at 
tention  to  tea.  It  had  just  been  poured  out  when  Gerald 
came  strolling  over  the  lawn  towards  them. 

He  carried  his  Panama  hat  doubled  in  his  hand;  he 
looked  exquisitely  cool,  and  he  glanced  about  him  as  he 
came,  well  pleased,  apparently,  to  find  himself  again  in 
his  old  home.  Althea  felt  his  manner  of  approaching 
them  to  be  characteristic ;  it  was  at  once  so  desultory  and 
so  pleasant. 

"You  look  like  a  flock  of  doves,"  he  said,  as,  smiling, 
he  took  Althea 's  welcoming  hand  and  surveyed  the 
group.  "Hello,  Helen,  how  are  you?  Hello,  Charlie; 
and  how  nice  to  find  you,  Frances." 

He  was  introduced  to  the  others,  continuing  to  smile 
with  marked  approbation,  Althea  felt,  upon  Mildred  and 
Dorothy,  who  certainly  looked  charming,  and  then  he 
dropped  on  the  grass  beside  Lady  Pickering's  chair. 

Althea  knew  that  if  she  looked  like  a  dove,  she  felt 
like  a  very  fluttering  one.  She  was  much  moved  by 
this  welcoming  of  Mr.  Digby  to  his  home,  and  she  won 
dered  if  the  quickened  beating  of  her  heart  manifested 
itself  in  any  change  of  glance  or  colour.  She  soon  felt, 
however,  as  she  distributed  teacups  and  looked  about  her 
circle,  that  if  she  were  visibly  moved  Mr.  Digby  would 
not  be  aware  of  the  fact.  The  fact,  obviously,  that  he 
was  most  aware  of  was  Lady  Pickering's  presence,  and 
he  was  talking  to  her  with  a  lightness  and  gaiety  that 
she  could  presently  only  define,  for  her  own  discomfort, 
as  flirtation.  Althea  had  had  little  experience  of  flirting, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  113 

and  the  little  had  not  been  personal.  It  had  remained 
for  her  always  a  rather  tasteless,  rather  ludicrous  spec 
tacle;  yet  Mr.  Digby's  manner  of  flirting,  if  flirting  it 
was,  was  neither.  It  was  graceful,  unemphatic,  com 
posed  of  playful  repartee  and  merry  glances.  It  was 
Lady  Pickering  who  overdid  her  side  of  the  dialogue 
and  brought  to  it  a  significance  that  Mr.  Digby's  eyes 
and  smile  disowned  even  while  they  evoked  it.  One  of 
the  things  of  which  Mr.  Digby  had  shown  himself  most 
completely  unaware  was  Franklin  Kane,  who  sat,  as 
usual,  just  outside  the  circle  in  the  sun,  balancing  his 
tea-cup  on  his  raised  knees  and  "Fletcherizing"  a  slice 
of  cake.  Gerald  had  glanced  at  him  as  one  might  glance 
— Althea  had  felt  it  keenly — at  some  nice  little  insect 
on  one 's  path,  a  pleasant  insect,  but  too  small  to  warrant 
any  attention  beyond  a  casual  recognition  of  type.  But 
Franklin,  who  had  a  casual  interest  in  nobody,  was  very 
much  aware  of  the  newcomer,  and  he  gazed  attentively 
at  Gerald  Digby  as  he  had  gazed  at  Helen  on  the  first 
evening  of  their  meeting,  with  less  of  interest  perhaps, 
but  with  much  the  same  dispassionate  intentness;  and 
Althea  felt  sure  that  he  already  did  not  approve  of 
Gerald  Digby. 

She  asked  Helen  that  evening,  lightly,  as  Helen  had 
asked  an  equivalent  question  about  Franklin  and  Miss 
Buckston,  whether  Mr.  Digby  and  Lady  Pickering  were 
in  love;  she  felt  sure  that  they  were  not  in  love,  which 
made  the  question  easier. 

' '  Oh  no ;  not  at  all,  I  fancy, ' '  said  Helen. 

"I  only  asked,"  said  Althea,  " because  it  seemed  the 
obvious  explanation." 

' '  You  mean  their  way  of  flirting. ' ' 

8 


114  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Yes.  I  suppose  I  'm  not  used  to  flirtation,  not  to 
such  extreme  flirtation.  I  don't  like  it,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do;  but  Gerald  is  only  a  flirt 
through  sympathy  and  good  nature.  It  's  Frances  who 
leads  him  on;  she  is  a  flirt  by  temperament." 

"I  'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Althea.  "I  'm  sure  he  is 
too  nice  to  be  one  by  temperament." 

"After  all,  it  's  a  very  harmless  diversion." 

"Do  you  think  it  harmless?  It  pains  me  to  see  a 
sacred  thing  being  mimicked." 

"I  hardly  think  it  's  a  sacred  thing  Frances  and 
Gerald  are  mimicking,"  Helen  smiled. 

"It  's  love,  isn't  it?" 

"Love  of  such  a  trivial  order  that  I  can't  feel  any 
thing  is  being  taken  in  vain." 

Helen  was  amused,  yet  touched  by  her  friend's 
standards.  Such  distaste  was  not  unknown  to  her,  and 
Gerald's  sympathetic  propensities  had  caused  her  qualms 
with  which  she  could  not  have  imagined  that  Althea 's 
had  any  analogy.  Yet  it  was  not  her  own  taste  she  was 
considering  that  evening  after  dinner  when,  in  walking 
up  and  down  with  Gerald  on  the  gravelled  terrace  outside 
the  drawing-room,  she  told  him  of  Althea 's  standards. 
She  felt  responsible  for  Gerald,  and  that  she  owed  it  to 
Althea  that  he  should  not  be  allowed  to  displease  her.  It 
had  struck  her  more  than  once,  immersed  in  self-centred 
cogitations  as  she  was,  that  Althea  was  altogether  too 
much  relegated. 

"I  wish  you  and  Frances  would  not  go  on  as  you  do, 
Gerald,"  she  said.  "It  disturbs  Althea,  I  am  sure.  She 
is  not  used  to  seeing  people  behaving  like  that." 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  115 

' '  Behaving  ? ' '  asked  the  innocent  Gerald.  ' '  How  have 
I  been  behaving?" 

"Very  foolishly.  You  have  been  flirting,  and  rather 
flagrantly,  with  Frances,  ever  since  you  came." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  know  perfectly  well  that  one  can't 
talk  to  Frances  without  flirting  with  her.  All  conversa 
tion  becomes  flirtation.  The  most  guileless  glance,  in 
meeting  her  eye,  is  transmuted,  like  a  straight  stick  look 
ing  crooked  when  you  put  it  into  water,  you  know. 
Frances  has  a  charmingly  deviating  quality  that  I  defy 
the  straightest  of  intentions  to  evade. ' ' 

"Are  yours  so  straight?" 

"Well — she  is  pretty  and  pleasant,  and  perfectly  su 
perficial,  as  you  know.  I  own  that  I  do  rather  like  to 
put  the  stick  in  the  water  and  see  what  happens  to  it. ' ' 

"Well,  don't  put  it  in  too  often  before  Althea.  After 
all,  you  are  all  of  you  here  because  of  her  friendship 
with  me,  and  it  makes  me  feel  guilty  if  I  see  her  having 
a  bad  time  because  of  your  misbehaviour. ' ' 

"A  bad  time?" 

"Really.  She  takes  things  hard.  She  said  it  was 
mimicking  a  sacred  thing. ' ' 

"Oh!  but,  I  say,  how  awfully  funny,  Helen.  You 
must  own  that  it  's  funny." 

"Funny,  but  sweet,  too." 

"She  is  a  sweet  creature,  of  course,  one  can  see  that; 
and  her  moral  approvals  and  disapprovals  are  firmly 
fixed,  however  funny;  one  likes  that  in  her.  I  '11  try 
to  be  good,  if  Frances  will  let  me.  She  looked  quite 
pretty  this  evening,  Miss  Jakes ;  only  she  dresses  too 
stiffly.  What  's  the  matter?  Couldn't  you  give  her  a 


116  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

hint?  She  is  like  a  satin-box,  and  a  woman  ought  to 
be  like  a  flower;  ought  to  look  as  if  they  'd  bend  if  a 
breeze  went  over  them.  Now  you  can't  imagine  Miss 
Jakes  bending ;  she  'd  have  to  stoop. ' ' 

Helen,  in  the  darkness,  smiled  half  bitterly,  half  affec 
tionately.  Gerald's  nonsense  always  pleased  her,  even 
when  she  was  most  exasperated  with  him.  She  was  not 
exasperated  with  Gerald  in  particular  just  now,  but  with 
everything  and  everybody,  herself  included,  and  the  fact 
that  he  liked  to  flirt  flagrantly  with  Lady  Pickering 
did  not  move  her  more  than  usual.  It  was  not  a  par 
ticular  but  a  general  irritation  that  edged  her  voice  a 
little  as  she  said,  drawing  her  black  scarf  more  closely 
round  her  shoulders,  "Frances  must  satisfy  you  there. 
Your  tastes,  I  think,  are  becoming  more  and  more  di 
shevelled." 

But  innocent  Gerald  answered  with  a  coal  of  fire: 
"No,  she  is  too  dishevelled.  You  satisfy  my  tastes  there 
entirely;  you  flow,  but  you  don't  flop.  Now  if  Miss 
Jakes  would  only  try  to  dress  like  you  she  'd  be  im 
mensely  improved.  You  are  perfect."  And  he  lightly 
touched  her  scarf  as  he  spoke  with  a  fraternal  and  ap 
preciative  hand. 

Helen  continued  to  smile  in  the  darkness,  but  it  was 
over  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  sob.  The  impulse 
was  so  strong  that  it  frightened  her,  and  it  was  with 
immense  relief  that  she  saw  Althea's  figure — her  "box- 
like"  figure — appear  in  the  lighted  window.  She  did  not 
want  to  talk  to  Althea,  and  she  could  not,  just  now,  go 
on  talking  to  Gerald.  From  their  corner  of  the  terrace 
she  indicated  the  vaguely  gazing  Althea.  "There  she 
is/'  she  said.  "Go  and  talk  to  her.  Be  nice  to  her. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  117 

I  'm  tired  and  am  going  to  have  a  stroll  in  the  shrubberies 
before  bed." 

She  left  Gerald  obediently,  if  not  eagerly,  moving 
towards  the  window,  and  slipping  into  the  obscurity  of 
the  shrubberies  she  threw  back  her  scarf  and  drew  long 
breaths.  She  was  becoming  terribly  overwrought.  It 
had  been,  since  so  long,  a  second  nature  to  live  two  lives 
that  any  danger  of  their  merging  affected  her  with  a 
dreadful  feeling  of  disintegration.  There  was  the  life 
of  comradeship,  the  secure  little  compartment  where 
Gerald  was  at  home,  so  at  home  that  he  could  tell  her  she 
was  perfect  and  touch  her  scarf  with  an  approving  hand, 
and  from  this  familiar  shelter  she  had  looked  for  so 
long,  wdth  the  calmest  eye,  upon  his  flirtations,  and  in 
it  had  heard,  unmoved,  his  encomiums  upon  herself. 
The  other  life,  the  real  life,  was  all  outdoors  in  com 
parison;  it  was  all  her  real  self,  passionate,  untamed, 
desolate;  it  was  like  a  bleak,  wild  moorland,  and  the 
social,  the  comrade  self  only  a  strongly  built  little  lodge 
erected,  through  stress  of  wind  and  weather,  in  the  midst 
of  it.  Since  girlhood  it  had  been  a  second  nature  to  her 
to  keep  comradeship  shut  in  and  reality  shut  out.  And 
to-night  reality  seemed  to  shake  and  batter  at  the 
doors. 

She  had  come  to  Merriston  House  to  rest,  to  drink  eau 
rougie  and  to  rest.  She  wanted  to  lapse  into  apathy 
and  to  recover,  as  far  as  might  be,  from  her  recent  un 
pleasant  experiments  and  experiences.  Had  she  allowed 
herself  any  illusions  about  the  experiment,  the  experience 
would  have  been  humiliating;  but  Helen  was  not  humil 
iated,  she  had  not  deceived  herself  for  a  moment.  She 
had,  open-eyed,  been  trying  for  the  ' '  other  things, ' '  and 


118  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

she  had  only  just  missed  them.  She  had  intended  to 
marry  a  very  important  person  who  much  admired  her. 
She  had  been  almost  sure  that  she  could  marry  him  if 
she  wanted  to,  and  she  had  found  out  that  she  couldn't. 
It  had  not  been,  as  in  her  youth,  her  own  shrinking  and 
her  own  recoil  at  the  last  decisive  moment.  She  had 
been  resolved  and  unwavering ;  her  discomfiture  had  been 
sudden  and  its  cause  the  quite  grotesque  one  of  her 
admirer  having  fallen  head  over  heels  in  love  with  a  child 
of  eighteen — a  foolish,  affected  little  child,  who  giggled 
and  glanced  and  blushed  opportunely,  and  who,  beside 
these  assets,  had  a  skilful  and  determined  mother.  With 
out  the  mother  to  waylay,  pounce,  and  fix,  Helen  did 
not  believe  that  her  sober,  solid  friend  would  have 
yielded  to  the  momentary  beguilement,  and  Helen  her 
self  deigned  not  one  hint  of  contest;  she  had  been  re 
solved,  but  only  to  accept ;  she  could  never  have  waylaid 
or  pounced.  And  now,  apathetic,  yet  irritated,  ex 
hausted  and  sick  at  heart,  she  had  been  telling  herself, 
as  she  lay  in  the  garden-chairs  at  Merriston  House,  that 
it  was  more  than  probable  that  the  time  was  over,  even 
for  the  "other  things."  The  prospect  made  her  weary. 
What, — with  Aunt  Grizel's  one  hundred  and  fifty  a 
year, — was  she  to  do  with  herself  in  the  future?  What 
was  to  become  of  her?  She  didn't  feel  that  she  much 
cared,  and  yet  it  was  all  that  there  was  left  to  care 
about,  for  Aunt  Grizel's  sake  if  not  for  her  own,  and 
she  felt  only  fit  to  rest  from  the  pressure  of  the  ques 
tion.  To-night,  as  she  turned  and  wandered  among  the 
trees,  she  said  to  herself  that  it  hadn  't  been  a  propitious 
time  to  come  for  rest  to  Merriston  House.  Gerald  had 
been  the  last  person  she  desired  to  see  just  now.  She 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  119 

had  never  been  so  near  to  feeling  danger  as  to-night.  If 
Gerald  were  nice  to  her — he  always  was — but  nice  in 
a  certain  way,  the  way  that  expressed  so  clearly  his 
tenderness  and  his  dreadful,  his  merciful  unawareness, 
she  might  break  down  before  him  and  sob.  This  would 
be  too  horrible,  and  when  she  thought  that  it  might  hap 
pen  she  felt,  rising  with  the  longing  for  tears,  an  old 
resentment  against  Gerald,  fierce,  absurd,  and  uncon 
querable.  After  making  the  round  of  the  lawns  and 
looking  up  hard  and  unseeingly  at  the  stars,  she  came 
back  to  the  terrace.  Gerald  and  Althea  were  gone,  and 
she  surmised  that  Gerald  had  not  taken  much  trouble  to 
be  nice.  She  was  passing  along  an  unillumined  corner 
when  she  came  suddenly  upon  a  figure  seated  there — so 
suddenly  that  she  almost  fell  against  it.  She  murmured 
a  hasty  apology  as  Mr.  Kane  rose  from  a  chair  where, 
with  folded  arms,  he  had  been  seated,  apparently  in  con 
templation  of  the  night. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Helen.  "It  's  so  dark 
here.  I  didn't  see  you." 

' '  And  I  didn  't  hear  you  coming, ' '  said  Mr.  Kane.  ' '  I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  'm  afraid  you  hurt  your  foot. ' ' 

"Not  at  all,"  Helen  assured  him.  She  had  stepped 
into  the  light  from  the  windows  and,  Mr.  Kane  being 
beside  her,  she  could  see  his  face  clearly  and  see  that  he 
looked  very  tired.  She  had  been  aware,  in  these  days  of 
somnolent  retirement,  that  one  other  member  of  the 
party  seemed,  though  not  in  her  sense  retired  from  it,  to 
wander  rather  aimlessly  on  its  outskirts.  That  his  re 
moval  to  this  ambiguous  limbo  had  been  the  result  of 
her  own  arrival  Helen  had  no  means  of  knowing,  since 
she  had  never  seen  Mr.  Kane  in  his  brief  moment  of  hope 


120  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

when  he  and  Althea  had  been  centre  and  everybody  else 
outskirts.  She  had  found  him,  during  her  few  conver 
sations  with  him,  so  tamely  funny  as  to  be  hardly  odd, 
though  his  manner  of  speaking  and  the  way  in  which 
his  hair  was  cut  struck  her  as  expressing  oddity  to  an 
unfortunate  degree;  but  though  only  dimly  aware  of 
him,  and  aware  mainly  in  this  sense  of  amusement,  she 
had,  since  Althea  had  informed  her  of  his  status,  seen 
him  with  some  compassionateness.  It  didn't  make  him 
less  funny  to  her  that  he  should  have  been  in  love  with 
Althea  for  fifteen  years,  rather  it  made  him  more  so. 
Helen  found  it  difficult  to  take  either  the  devotion  or 
its  object  very  seriously.  She  thought  hopeless  passions 
rather  ridiculous,  her  own  included,  but  Gerald  she  did 
consider  a  possible  object  of  passion ;  and  how  Althea 
could  be  an  object  of  passion  for  anybody,  even  for 
funny  little  Mr.  Kane,  surpassed  her  comprehension,  so 
that  the  only  way  to  understand  the  situation  was  to 
decide  that  Mr.  Kane  was  incapable  of  passion  altogether. 
But  to-night  she  received  a  new  impression;  looking  at 
Mr.  Kane's  face,  thin,  jaded,  and  kindly  attentive  to  her 
self,  it  suddenly  became  apparent  to  her  that  whatever 
his  feeling  might  be  it  was  serious.  He  might  not  know 
passion,  but  his  heart  was  aching,  perhaps  as  fiercely  as 
her  own.  She  felt  sorry  for  Mr.  Kane,  and  her  step  lin 
gered  on  her  way  to  the  house. 

"Isn't  it  a  lovely  night,"  she  said,  in  order  to  say 
something.  "Do  you  like  sitting  in  the  dark? 
It  's  very  restful,  isn't  it?" 

Franklin  saw  the  alien  Miss  Buchanan's  eyes  bent 
kindly  and  observantly  upon  him. 

"Yes,  it  's  very  restful,"  he  said.     "It  smooths 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  121 

out  and  straightens  you  out  when  you  get  crumpled,  you 
know,  and  impatient." 

"I  should  not  imagine  you  as  ever  very  impatient," 
smiled  Helen.  "Perhaps  you  do  sit  a  great  deal  in  the 
dark." 

He  took  her  whimsical  suggestion  with  careful  humour. 
' '  Why,  no,  it  's  not  a  habit  of  mine ;  and  it  's  not  a  recipe 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  overdo,  is  it  ? " 

"Why  not?  "she  asked. 

"There  are  worse  things  than  impatience,  aren't 
there?"  said  Franklin.  "Gloominess,  for  instance. 
You  might  get  gloomy  if  you  sat  out  in  the  dark  a  great 
deal." 

It  amused  her  a  little  to  wonder,  as  they  went  in 
together,  whether  Mr.  Kane  disciplined  his  emotions  and 
withdrew  from  restful  influences  before  they  had  time  to 
become  discouraging  ones.  She  imagined  that  he  would 
have  a  recipe  for  everything. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  after  this  little  nocturnal  encounter  that 
Helen  found  herself  watching  Mr.  Kane  with  a 
dim,  speculative  sympathy.  There  was  nothing  else  of 
much  interest  to  watch,  as  far  as  she  was  aware,  for 
Helen's  powers  of  observation  were  not  sharpened  by 
much  imaginativeness.  Her  sympathy  must  be  aroused 
for  her  to  care  to  see,  and  just  now  she  felt  no  sympathy 
for  any  one  but  Mr.  Kane. 

Gerald,  flirting  far  less  flagrantly  and  sketching  assidu 
ously,  was  in  no  need  of  sympathy;  nor  Althea,  despite 
the  fact  that  Helen  felt  her  to  be  a  little  reserved  and 
melancholy.  Althea,  on  the  whole,  seemed  placidly 
enough  absorbed  in  her  duties  of  hostess,  and  her  state 
of  mind,  at  no  time  much  preoccupying  Helen,  preoc 
cupied  her  now  less  than  ever.  The  person  who  really 
interested  her,  now  that  she  had  come  to  look  at  him  and 
to  realise  that  he  was  suffering,  was  Mr.  Kane.  He  wras 
puzzling  to  her,  not  mystifying;  there  was  no  element 
of  depth  or  shadow  about  him;  even  his  suffering — it 
was  odd  to  think  that  a  person  with  such  a  small,  flat 
nose  should  suffer — even  his  suffering  was  pellucid. 
He  puzzled  her  because  he  was  different  from  anything 
she  had  ever  encountered,  and  he  made  her  think  of  a 
page  of  trite  phrases  printed  in  a  half-comprehended 
dialect.  If  it  was  puzzling  that  any  man  should  be 

122 


123 

sufficiently  in  love  with  Althea  to  suffer  over  it,  it  was  yet 
more  puzzling  that,  neglected  as  he  so  obviously  was  by 
his  beloved,  he  should  show  no  dejection  or  conscious 
ness  of  diminution.  He  seemed  a  little  aimless,  it  is  true, 
but  not  in  the  least  injured;  and  Helen,  as  she  watched 
him,  found  herself  liking  Mr.  Kane. 

He  had  an  air,  pleasant  to  her,  of  finding  no  one  be 
neath  him,  and  at  the  same  time  he  seemed  as  unaware 
of  superiority — unless  it  were  definitely  moral  or  in 
tellectual.  A  general  indiscriminating  goodwill  was  ex 
pressed  in  his  manner  towards  everybody,  and  when  he 
did  discriminate — which  was  always  on  moral  issues 
— his  goodwill  seemed  unperturbed  by  any  amount  of 
reprobation.  He  remained  blandly  humane  under  the 
most  disconcerting  circumstances.  She  overtook  him  one 
day  in  a  lane  holding  a  drunkard  by  the  shoulder  and 
endeavouring  to  steer  him  homeward,  while  he  ex 
pounded  to  him  in  scientific  tones  the  ill  effects  of  alcohol 
on  the  system,  and  the  remarkable  results  to  be  attained 
by  steady  self-suggestion.  Mr.  Kane's  collar  was  awry 
and  his  coat  dusty,  almost  as  dusty  as  the  drunkard's, 
with  whom  he  had  evidently  had  to  grapple  in  raising 
him  from  the  highway ;  and  Helen,  as  she  paused  at  the 
turning  of  the  road  which  brought  her  upon  them,  heard 
Franklin 's  words : 

"I  've  tried  it  myself  for  insomnia.  I  'm  a  nervous 
man,  and  I  wras  in  a  bad  way  at  the  time ;  over-pressure, 
you  know,  and  worry.  I  guess  it  's  like  that  with  you, 
too,  isn't  it?  You  get  on  edge.  Well,  there  's  nothing 
better  than  self-suggestion,  and  if  you  '11  give  it  a  try 
you  '11  be  surprised  by  the  results,  I  'm  sure  of  it. ' ' 


124  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Helen  joined  them  and  offered  her  assistance,  for  the 
bewildered  proselyte  seemed  unable  to  move  forward  now 
that  he  was  upon  his  feet. 

"Well,  if  you  would  be  so  kind.  Just  your  hand  on 
his  other  shoulder,  you  know,"  said  Franklin,  turning  a 
grateful  glance  upon  her.  "Our  friend  here  is  in 
trouble,  you  see.  It  's  not  far  to  the  village,  and  what 
he  wants  is  to  get  to  bed,  have  a  good  sleep  and  then  a 
wash.  He  '11  feel  a  different  man  then." 

Helen,  her  hand  at  "our  friend's"  left  shoulder, 
helped  to  propel  him  forward,  and  ten  minutes  took  them 
to  his  door,  where,  surrounded  by  a  staring  crowd  of 
women  and  children,  they  delivered  him  into  the  keep 
ing  of  his  wif  e,  a  thin  and  weary  person,  who  looked  upon 
his  benefactors  with  almost  as  much  resentment  as  upon 
him. 

"What  he  really  needs,  I  'm  afraid  I  think,"  Helen 
said,  as  she  and  Mr.  Kane  walked  away,  "is  a  good 
whipping. ' '  She  said  it  in  order  to  see  the  effect  of  the 
ruthlessness  upon  her  humanitarian  companion. 

Mr.  Kane  did  not  look  shocked  or  grieved;  he  turned 
a  cogitating  glance  upon  her,  and  she  saw  that  he 
diagnosed  the  state  of  mind  that  could  make  such  a  sug 
gestion  and  could  not  take  it  seriously.  He  smiled,  though 
a  little  gravely,  in  answering :  ' '  Why,  no,  I  don 't  think 
so;  and  I  don't  believe  you  think  so,  Miss  Buchanan. 
What  you  want  to  give  him  is  a  hold  on  himself,  hope 
and  self-respect;  it  wouldn't  give  you  self-respect  to  be 
whipped,  would  it  ? " 

"It  might  give  me  discretion,"  said  Helen,  smiling 
back. 

"We  don't  want  human  beings  to  have  the  discretion 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  125 

of  animals ;  we  want  them  to  have  the  discretion  of  men, ' ' 
said  Franklin  ;  ' '  that  is,  self-mastery  and  wisdom. ' ' 

Helen  did  not  feel  able  to  argue  the  point;  indeed,  it 
did  not  interest  her ;  but  she  asked  Mr.  Kane,  some  days 
later,  how  his  roadside  friend  wras  progressing  towards 
the  discretion  of  a  man. 

' '  Oh,  he  '11  be  all  right, "  said  Franklin.  "  He  '11  pull 
round.  Self-suggestion  will  do  it.  It  's  not  a  bad  case. 
He  couldn't  get  hold  of  the  idea  at  first — he  's  not  very 
bright ;  but  I  found  out  that  he  'd  got  some  very  useful 
religious  notions,  and  I  work  it  in  on  these." 

From  the  housekeeper,  a  friend  of  her  youth,  Helen 
learned  that  in  the  village  Mr.  Kane's  ministrations  to 
Jim  Betts  were  regarded  with  surprise,  yet  not  without 
admiration.  He  was  supposed  to  be  some  strange  sort 
of  foreign  clergyman,  not  to  be  placed  in  any  recog 
nisable  category.  "He  's  a  very  kind  gentleman,  I  'm 
sure,"  said  Mrs.  Fielding. 

Mr.  Kane  was  fond,  Helen  also  observed,  of  entering 
into  conversation  with  the  servants.  The  butler's  politi 
cal  views — which  were  guarded — he  determinedly  pur 
sued,  undeterred  by  Baines's  cautious  and  deferential 
retreats.  He  considered  the  footman  as  a  potential 
friend,  whatever  the  footman  might  consider  him.  Their 
common  manhood,  in  Franklin's  eyes,  entirely  out 
weighed  the  slight,  extraneous  accidents  of  fortune — 
nay,  these  differences  gave  an  additional  interest.  The 
footman  had,  no  doubt,  a  point  of  view  novel  and  valu 
able,  if  one  could  get  at  it.  Franklin  did  not  attempt  to 
get  at  it  by  any  method  subversive  of  order  or  interfer 
ing  with  Thomas's  duties;  he  observed  all  the  conventions 
demanded  by  varying  function.  But  Helen,  strolling 


126  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

one  morning  before  breakfast  outside  the  dining-room 
windows,  heard  within  and  paused  to  listen  to  Mr. 
Kane's  monotonous  and  slightly  nasal  tones  as  he  shared 
the  morning  news  with  Thomas,  who,  with  an  air  of  be 
wildered  if  obedient  attention,  continued  his  avocations 
between  the  sideboard  and  the  breakfast-table. 

' '  Now  I  should  say, ' '  Franklin  remarked,  ' '  that  some 
thing  of  that  sort — Germany  's  doing  wonders  with  it — 
could  be  worked  here  in  England  if  you  set  yourselves  to 
it." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Thomas. 

"Berlin  has  eliminated  the  slums,  you  know,"  said 
Franklin,  looking  thoughtfully  at  Thomas  over  the  top 
of  the  paper.  "What  do  you  feel  about  it,  all  of  you 
over  here?  It  's  a  big  question,  you  know,  that  of  the 
housing  of  the  poor." 

"Well,  I  can't  say,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  compelled  to  a 
guarded  opinion.  "Things  do  look  black  for  the  lower 
borders. ' ' 

' '  You  're  right,  Thomas ;  and  things  will  go  on  look 
ing  black  for  helpless  people  until  they  determine  to  help 
themselves,  or  until  people  who  aren  't  helpless — like  you 
and  me — determine  they  shan  't  be  so  black. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Talk  it  over,  you  know.  Get  your  friends  interested 
in  it.  It  's  a  mighty  big  subject,  of  course,  that  of  the 
State  and  its  poor,  but  it  's  wonderful  what  can  be  done 
by  personal  initiative." 

Helen  entered  at  this  point,  and  Thomas  turned  a 
furtive  eye  upon  her,  perhaps  in  appeal  for  protection 
against  these  unprovoked  and  inexplicable  attacks. 
"One  might  think  the  gentleman  thought  I  had  a  vote 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  127 

and  was  canvassing  me, ' '  he  said  to  Baines,  condescend 
ing  in  this  their  common  perplexity.  And  Baines  re 
plied  :  "  I  'm  sure  I  don 't  know  what  he  's  up  to. ' ' 

Meanwhile  Franklin,  in  the  dining-room,  folded  his 
paper  and  said:  "You  know,  Miss  Buchanan,  that 
Thomas,  though  a  nice  fellow;  is  remarkably  ignorant. 
I  can't  make  out  that  there  's  anything  of  a  civic  or 
national  nature  that  he  's  interested  in.  He  doesn't 
seem  to  read  anything  in  the  papers  except  the  racing 
and  betting  news.  He  doesn't  seem  to  feel  that  he  has 
any  stake  in  this  great  country  of  yours,  or  any  re 
sponsibility  towards  it.  It  makes  me  believe  in  man 
hood  suffrage  as  I  've  never  believed  before.  Our  people 
may  be  politically  corrupt,  but  at  least  they  're  inter 
ested;  they  're  alive — alive  enough  to  want  to  under 
stand  how  to  get  the  best  of  things — as  they  see  best. 
I  've  rarely  met  an  American  that  I  couldn't  get  to  talk ; 
now  it  's  almost  impossible  to  get  Thomas  to  talk.  Yet 
he  's  a  nice  young  fellow ;  he  has  a  nice,  open,  intelligent 
face." 

"Oh  yes,  has  he?"  said  Helen,  wrho  was  looking  over 
the  envelopes  at  her  place.  "I  hadn't  noticed  his  face; 
very  pink,  isn  't  it  ? " 

"Yes,  he  has  a  healthy  colour,"  said  Franklin,  still 
meditating  on  Thomas's  impenetrability.  "It  's  not 
that  I  don't  perfectly  understand  his  being  uncom 
municative  when  he  's  engaged  in  his  work — it  was 
rather  tactless  of  me  to  talk  to  him  just  now,  only  the 
subject  came  up.  I  'd  been  talking  to  Baines  about 
the  Old  Age  Pensions  yesterday.  That  's  one  of  my 
objections  to  domestic  service;  it  creates  an  artificial 
barrier  between  man  and  man;  but  I  know  that  the 


128  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

barrier  is  part  of  the  business,  while  the  business  is  going 
on,  and  I  've  no  quarrel  with  social  convention,  as  such. 
But  even  when  they  are  alone  with  me — and  I  'm  re 
ferring  to  Baines  now  as  much  as  to  Thomas — they  are 
very  uncommunicative.  I  met  Thomas  on  the  road  to 
the  village  the  other  day  and  could  hardly  get  a  word 
out  of  him  till  I  began  to  talk  about  cricket  and  ask  him 
about  it. ' ' 

' '  He  is  probably  a  stupid  boy, ' '  said  Helen,  ' '  and  you 
frighten  him." 

' '  If  you  say  that,  it  's  an  indictment  on  the  whole  sys 
tem,  you  know,"  said  Franklin  very  gravely. 

"What  system?"  Helen  asked,  opening  her  letters, 
but  looking  at  Mr.  Kane. 

"The  system  that  makes  some  people  afraid  of 
others,"  said  Franklin. 

"It  will  always  frighten  inferior  people  to  be  talked 
to  by  their  superiors  as  if  they  were  on  a  level.  You 
probably  talk  to  Thomas  about  things  he  doesn't  under 
stand,  and  it  bewilders  him."  Helen,  willing  to  en 
lighten  his  idealism,  smiled  mildly  at  him,  glancing 
down  at  her  letters  as  she  spoke. 

Mr.  Kane  surveyed  her  with  his  bright,  steady  gaze. 
Her  simple  elucidation  evidently  left  him  far  from  satis 
fied,  either  with  her  or  the  system.  "In  essentials,  Miss 
Buchanan,"  he  said,  "in  the  power  of  effort,  endurance, 
devotion,  I  've  no  doubt  that  Thomas  and  I  are  equals, 
and  that  's  all  that  ought  to  matter. ' ' 

The  others  now  were  coming  in,  and  Helen  only  shook 
her  head,  smiling  on  and  quite  unconvinced  as  she  said, 
taking  her  chair,  and  reaching  out  her  hand  to  shake 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  129 

Althea's,  "I  'm  afraid  the  inessentials  matter  most, 
then,  in  human  intercourse." 

From  these  fortuitous  encounters  Helen  gathered  the 
impression  by  degrees  that  though  Mr.  Kane  might  not 
find  her  satisfactory,  he  found  her,  in  her  incommunica- 
tiveness,  quite  as  interesting  as  Thomas  the  footman. 
He  spent  as  much  time  in  endeavouring  to  probe  her  as 
he  did  in  endeavouring  to  probe  Baines,  even  more  time. 
He  would  sit  beside  her  garden-chair  looking  over 
scientific  papers,  making  a  remark  now  and  then  on  their 
contents — contents  as  remote  from  Helen's  comprehen 
sion  as  was  the  housing  of  the  Berlin  poor  from 
Thomas's;  and  sometimes  he  would  ask  her  a  searching 
question,  over  the  often  frivolous  answer  to  which  he 
would  carefully  reflect. 

"I  gather,  Miss  Buchanan,"  he  said  to  her  one  after 
noon,  when  they  were  thus  together  under  the  trees, 
"I  gather  that  the  state  of  your  health  isn't  good. 
Would  it  be  inadmissable  on  my  part  to  ask  you  if  there 
is  anything  really  serious  the  matter  with  you?" 

"My  state  of  health?"  said  Helen,  startled.  "My 
health  is  perfectly  good.  Who  told  you  it  wasn't?" 

"Why,  nobody.  But  since  you  've  been  here — that  's 
a  fortnight  now — I  Ve  observed  that  you  Ve  led  an  in 
valid's  life." 

' '  I  am  lazy,  that  's  all ;  and  I  'm  in  rather  a  bad 
temper, ' '  Helen  smiled ;  ' '  and  it  's  very  warm  weather. ' ' 

"Well,  when  you  're  not  lazy;  when  you  're  not  in 
a  bad  temper;  when  it  's  cold  weather — what  do  you 
do  with  yourself,  anyway?"  Franklin,  now  that  he 
had  fairly  come  to  his  point,  folded  his  papers,  clasped 

9 


130 

his  hands  around  his  knees  and  looked  expectantly  at 
her. 

Helen  returned  his  gaze  for  some  moments  in  silence ; 
then  she  found  that  she  was  quite  willing  to  give  Mr. 
Kane  all  he  asked  for — a  detached  sincerity.  "I  can't 
say  that  I  do  anything,"  she  replied. 

"Haven't  you  any  occupation?" 

"Not  unless  staying  about  with  people  is  an  occupa 
tion,"  Helen  suggested.  "I  'm  rather  good  at  that — 
when  I  'm  not  too  lazy  and  not  too  out  of  temper." 

"You  don't  consider  society  an  occupation.  It  's 
only  justifiable  as  a  recreation  when  work  's  done. 
Every  one  ought  to  have  an  occupation.  You  're  not 
alive  at  all  unless  you  've  a  purpose  that  's  organising 
your  life  in  some  way.  Now,  it  strikes  me,"  said 
Franklin,  eyeing  her  steadily,  "that  you  're  hardly  half 
alive." 

"Oh,  dear!"  Helen  laughed.     "Why,  pray?" 

"Don't  laugh  at  it,  Miss  Buchanan.  It  's  a  serious 
matter;  the  most  serious  matter  there  is.  No,  don't 
laugh;  you  distress  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Helen,  and  she  turned  her 
head  aside  a  little,  for  the  laugh  wras  not  quite  genuine, 
and  she  was  suddenly  afraid  of  those  idiotic  tears. 
"Only  it  amuses  me  that  any  one  should  think  me  a 
serious  matter." 

"Don't  be  cynical,  Miss  Buchanan;  that  's  what  's 
the  trouble  with  you;  you  take  refuge  in  cynicism 
rather  than  in  thought.  If  you  'd  think  about  it  and 
not  try  to  evade  it,  you  'd  know  perfectly  well  that 
there  is  nothing  so  serious  to  you  in  all  the  world  as 
your  own  life. ' ' 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  131 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Helen,  after  a  little  pause, 
sobered,  though  still  amused.  ' '  I  don 't  know  that  I  feel 
anything  very  serious,  except  all  the  unpleasant  things 
that  happen,  or  the  pleasant  things  that  don't." 

"Well,  what  's  more  serious  than  suffering?"  Mr. 
Kane  inquired,  and  as  she  could  really  find  no  answer 
to  this  he  went  on:  "And  you  ought  to  go  further; 
you  ought  to  be  able  to  take  every  human  being  se 
riously.  ' ' 

"Do  you  do  that?"  Helen  asked. 

"Any  one  who  thinks  must  do  it;  it  's  all  a  question 
of  thinking  things  out.  Now  I  've  thought  a  good  deal 
about  you,  Miss  Buchanan,"  Franklin  continued,  "and 
I  take  you  very  seriously,  very  seriously  indeed.  I  feel 
that  you  are  very  much  above  the  average  in  capacity. 
You  have  a  great  deal  in  you;  a  great  deal  of  power. 
I  Ve  been  watching  you  very  carefully,  and  I  've  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  you  are  a  woman  of  power. 
That  's  why  I  take  it  upon  myself  to  talk  to  you  like 
this;  that  's  why  it  distresses  me  to  see  you  going  to 
waste — half  alive." 

Helen,  her  head  still  turned  aside  in  her  chair,  looked 
up  at  the  green  branches  above  her,  no  longer  even 
pretending  to  smile.  Mr.  Kane  at  once  startled  and 
steadied  her.  He  made  her  feel  vaguely  ashamed  of 
herself,  and  he  made  her  feel  sorry  for  herself,  too,  so 
that,  funny  as  he  was,  his  effect  upon  her  was  to  soften 
and  to  calm  her.  Her  temper  felt  less  bad  and  her 
nerves  less  on  edge. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  after  a  little  while. 
"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  have  thought  about  me  like 
that.  And  you  do  think,  at  all  events,  that  I  am  half 


132  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

alive.  You  think  I  have  wants,  even  if  I  have  no  pur 
poses." 

"Yes,  that  's  it.  Wants,  not  purposes;  though  what 
they  are  I  can 't  find  out. ' ' 

She  was  willing  to  satisfy  his  curiosity.  "What  I 
want  is  money. ' ' 

"Well,  but  what  do  you  want  to  do  with  money?" 
Franklin  inquired,  receiving  the  sordid  avowal  without 
a  blink. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  said  Helen;  "to  use  what  you 
call  my  power,  I  suppose." 

"How  would  you  use  it?  You  haven't  trained  your 
self  for  any  use  of  it — except  enjoyment — as  far  as  I 
can  see." 

"I  think  I  could  spend  money  well.  I  'd  give  the 
people  I  liked  a  good  time." 

"You  'd  waste  their  time,  and  yours,  you  mean. 
Not  that  I  object  to  the  spending  of  money — if  it  's  in 
the  right  way." 

"I  think  I  could  find  the  right  way,  if  I  had  it." 
She  was  speaking  with  quite  the  seriousness  she  had 
disowned.  "I  hate  injustice,  and  I  hate  ugliness.  I 
think  I  could  make  things  nicer  if  I  had  money." 

Franklin  now  was  silent  for  some  time,  considering 
her  narrowly,  and  since  she  had  now  looked  down  from 
the  branches  and  back  at  him,  their  eyes  met  in  a  long 
encounter.  "Yes,"  he  said  at  length,  "you  'd  be  all 
right — if  only  you  weren  't  so  wrong.  If  only  you  had  a 
purpose — a  purpose  directed  towards  the  just  and  the 
beautiful;  if  only  instead  of  waiting  for  means  to  turn 
up,  you  'd  created  means  yourself;  if  only  you  'd  kept 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  133 

yourself  disciplined  and  steady  of  aim  by  some  sort  of 
hard  work,  you  'd  be  all  right." 

Helen,  extended  in  her  chair,  an  embodiment  of  lovely 
aimlessness,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him.  "But  what 
work  can  I  do?"  she  asked.  She  was  well  aware  that 
Mr.  Kane  could  have  no  practical  suggestions  for  her 
case,  yet  she  wanted  to  show  him  that  she  recognised 
it  as  a  case,  she  wanted  to  show  him  that  she  was  grate 
ful,  and  she  was  curious  besides  to  hear  what  he  would 
suggest.  "What  am  I  fit  for?  I  couldn't  earn  a 
penny  if  I  tried.  I  was  never  taught  anything." 

But  Mr.  Kane  was  ready  for  her,  as  he  had  been  ready 
for  Jim  Betts.  "It  's  not  a  question  of  earning  that  I 
mean,"  he  said,  "though  it  's  a  mighty  good  thing  to 
measure  yourself  up  against  the  wrorld  and  find  out  just 
what  your  cash  value  is,  but  I  'm  not  talking  about  that ; 
it  's  the  question  of  getting  your  faculties  into  some 
sort  of  working  order  that  I  'm  up  against.  Why  don 't 
you  study  something  systematically,  something  you  can 
grind  at?  Biology,  if  you  like,  or  political  economy,  or 
charity  organisation.  Begin  at  once.  Master  it." 

"Would  Dante  do,  for  a  beginning?"  Helen  inquired, 
smiling  rather  wanly.  "I  brought  him  down,  with  an 
Italian  dictionary.  Shall  I  master  Dante?" 

"I  should  feel  more  comfortable  about  you  if  it  was 
political  economy,"  said  Franklin,  now  smiling  back. 
"But  begin  with  Dante,  by  all  means.  Personally  I 
found  his  point  of  view  depressing,  but  then  I  read  him 
in  a  translation  and  never  got  even  as  far  as  the  Purga 
tory.  Be  sure  you  get  as  far  as  the  Paradise,  Miss  Bu 
chanan,  and  with  your  dictionary." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FRANKLIN  had  all  his  time  free  for  sitting  with 
Helen  under  the  trees.  Althea's  self-reproach,  her 
self-doubt  and  melancholy,  had  been  effaced  by  the  ar 
rival  of  Gerald  Digby,  and,  at  that  epoch  of  her  life, 
did  not  return  at  all.  She  had  no  time  for  self-doubt 
or  self-reproach,  no  time  even  for  self -consciousness. 
Franklin  had  faded  into  the  dimmest  possible  distance ; 
she  was  only  just  aware  that  he  was  there  and  that  Helen 
seemed,  kindly,  to  let  him  talk  a  good  deal  to  her.  She 
could  not  think  of  Franklin,  she  could  not  think  of  her 
self,  she  could  think  of  nobody  but  one  person,  for  her 
whole  being  was  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  Gerald 
Digby  and  in  the  consciousness  of  the  situation  that  his 
coming  had  created.  From  soft  exhilaration  she  had 
passed  to  miserable  depression,  yet  a  depression  far 
different  from  the  stagnant  melancholy  of  her  former 
mood;  this  was  a  depression  of  frustrated  feeling,  not 
of  lack  of  feeling,  and  it  was  accompanied  by  the  recogni 
tion  of  the  fact  that  she  exceedingly  disliked  Lady 
Pickering  and  wished  exceedingly  that  she  would  go 
away.  And  with  it  went  a  brooding  sense  of  delight 
in  Gerald's  mere  presence,  a  sense  of  delight  in  even 
the  pain  that  his  indifference  inflicted  upon  her. 

He  charmed  her  unspeakably — his  voice,  his  smile,  his 
gestures — and  she  knew  that  she  did  not  charm  him  in 

134 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  135 

any  way,  and  that  Lady  Pickering,  in  her  very  foolish 
ness,  did  charm  him,  and  the  knowledge  made  her  very 
grave  and  careful  when  she  was  with  him.  Delight 
and  pain  were  hidden  beneath  this  manner  of  careful 
gravity,  but,  as  the  excitement  of  Franklin's  presence 
had  at  first  done — and  in  how  much  greater  degree — 
they  subtly  transformed  her;  made  her  look  and  speak 
and  move  with  a  different  languor  and  gentleness. 

Gerald  himself  was  the  first  to  feel  a  change,  the  first 
to  become  aware  of  an  aroma  of  mystery.  He  had  been 
indifferent  indeed,  though  he  had  obeyed  Helen  and 
had  tried  not  only  to  be  very  courteous  but  to  be  very 
nice  as  well.  Now,  finding  Althea's  grave  eyes  upon 
him  when  he  sometimes  yielded  to  Lady  Pickering's 
allurements,  finding  them  turned  away  with  that  look 
of  austere  mildness,  he  ceased  to  be  so  indifferent,  he 
began  to  wonder  how  much  the  little  Puritan  disap 
proved  and  how  much  she  really  minded;  he  began  to 
make  surmises  about  the  state  of  mind  that  could  be  so 
aloof,  so  gentle,  and  so  inflexible. 

He  met  Althea  one  afternoon  in  the  garden  and 
walked  up  and  down  with  her  while  she  filled  her  basket 
with  roses.  She  was  very  gentle,  and  immeasurably 
distant.  The  sense  of  her  withdrawal  roused  his  mascu 
line  instinct  of  pursuit.  How  different  she  was  from 
Frances  Pickering!  How  charmingly  different.  Yes, 
in  her  elaborate  little  dress  of  embroidered  lawn,  with 
her  elaborate  garden  hat  pinned  so  neatly  on  her  thick 
fair  hair,  she  pleased  him  by  the  sense  of  contrast. 
There  was  charm  in  her  lack  of  charm,  attraction  in  her 
indifference.  How  impossible  to  imagine  those  grave 
eyes  smiling  an  alluring  smile — he  was  getting  tired  of 


136  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

alluring  smiles — how  impossible  to  imagine  Miss  Jakes 
flirting. 

"It  's  very  nice  to  see  you  here,"  he  said.  "I  have 
so  many  nice  memories  about  this  old  garden.  You 
don't  mind  my  cigarette?" 

Althea  said  that  she  liked  it. 

"There  is  a  beautiful  spray,  Miss  Jakes.  Let  me 
reach  it  for  you. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  thank  you  so  much. ' ' 

"You  are  fond  of  flowers?" 

"Very  fond." 

"Which  are  your  favourites?" 

"Lilies  of  the  valley."  Althea  spoke  kindly,  as  she 
might  have  spoken  to  a  rather  importunate  child;  his 
questions,  indeed,  were  not  original. 

Gerald  tried  to  mend  the  tameness  of  the  effect  that 
he  was  making.  "Yes,  only  the  florists  have  rather 
spoiled  them,  haven't  they?  My  favourites  are  the 
wilder  ones — honeysuckle,  grass  of  Parnassus,  bell- 
heather.  Helen  always  make  me  think  of  grass  of  Par 
nassus  and  bell-heather,  she  is  so  solitary  and  delicate 
and  strong."  He  wanted  Althea  to  realise  that  his  real 
appreciation  was  for  types  very  different  from  Lady 
Pickering.  She  smiled  kindly,  as  if  pleased  with  his 
simile,  and  he  went  on.  "You  are  like  pansies,  white 
and  purple  pansies." 

It  was  then  that  Althea  blushed.  Gerald  noticed  it 
at  once.  Experienced  flirt  as  he  wras  he  was  quick  to 
perceive  such  symptoms.  And,  suddenly,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  perhaps  the  reason  she  disapproved  so  much 
was  the  wish — unknown  to  herself,  poor  little  innocent — 
that  some  one  would  flirt  a  little  wTith  her.  He  felt 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  137 

qiite  sure  that  no  one  had  ever  flirted  with  Althea. 
Helen  had  told  him  of  Air.  Kane 's  hopeless  suit,  and  they 
had  wandered  in  rather  helpless  conjecture  about  the 
outside  of  a  case  that  didn't,  from  their  experience  of 
cases,  seem  to  offer  any  possibilities  of  an  inside.  Ger 
ald  had  indeed  loudly  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Mr.  Kane 
as  a  wooer  and  Helen  had  smiled,  while  assuring  him 
that  wooing  wasn't  the  only  test  of  worth.  Gerald  was 
rather  inclined  to  think  it  was.  He  was  quite  sure, 
though,  that  however  worthy  Mr.  Kane  might  be  he  had 
never  made  any  one  blush.  He  was  quite  sure  that  Mr. 
Kane  was  incapable  of  flirting,  and  it  pleased  him  now 
to  observe  the  sign  of  susceptibility  in  Althea.  It  was 
good  for  women,  he  felt  sure,  to  be  made  to  blush  some 
times,  and  he  promised  himself  that  he  would  renew 
the  experiment  with  Althea.  All  the  same  it  must  be 
very  un-emphatically  done;  there  would  be  something 
singularly  graceless  in  venturing  too  far  with  this  nice 
pansy,  for  though  she  might,  all  unaware,  want  to  be 
made  to  blush,  she  would  never  want  it  to  be  because  of 
his  light  motives. 

Meanwhile  Althea  was  in  dread  lest  he  should  see  her 
discomposure  and  her  bliss.  He  did  not  see  further 
than  her  discomposure. 

They  rehearsed  theatricals  all  the  next  day — he, 
Helen,  Lady  Pickering,  and  the  girls — and  Lady  Picker 
ing  was  very  naughty.  Gerald,  more  than  once,  had 
caught  Althea 's  eye  fixed,  repudiating  in  its  calm,  upon 
her.  It  had  been  especially  repudiating  when  Frances, 
at  tea,  had  thrown  a  bun  at  him. 

"Do  you  know,  Miss  Jakes,"  he  said  to  her  after  din 
ner,  when,  to  Lady  Pickering's  discomfiture,  as  he  saw, 


138  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

he  joined  Althea  on  her  little  sofa,  "do  you  know,  I  sus 
pect  you  of  being  dreadfully  bored  by  all  of  us.  We 
behave  like  a  lot  of  children,  don 't  we  ? "  He  was  think 
ing  of  the  bun. 

"Indeed!  I  think  it  charming  to  be  able  to  behave 
like  a  child,  if  one  feels  like  one,"  said  Althea,  coldly 
and  mildly. 

"Don't  you  ever  feel  like  one?  Do  you  always  be 
have  like  a  gentle  muse?" 

"Do  I  seem  to  behave  like  a  muse?  How  tiresome  I 
must  be,"  smiled  Althea. 

"Not  tiresome,  rather  impressive.  It  's  like  looking 
up  suddenly  from  some  nocturnal  fete — all  Japanese 
lanterns  and  fireworks — and  seeing  the  moon  gazing 
down  serenely  and  unseeingly  upon  one;  it  startles  and 
sobers  one  a  little,  you  know. ' ' 

"I  suppose  you  are  sober  sometimes,"  said  Althea, 
continuing  to  smile. 

"Lord,  yes!"  Gerald  laughed.  "Really  and  truly, 
Miss  Jakes,  I  'm  only  playing  at  being  a  child,  you  know. 
I  'm  quite  a  serious  person.  I  like  to  look  at  the  moon." 

And  again  Althea  blushed.  She  looked  down,  sitting 
straightly  in  the  corner  of  their  sofa  and  turning  her 
fan  slowly  between  her  fingers,  and,  feeling  the  sense  of 
gracelessness  in  this  too  easy  success,  Gerald  went  on  in 
a  graver  tone.  ' '  I  wish  you  would  let  me  be  serious  with 
you  sometimes,  Miss  Jakes;  you  'd  see  I  'd  quite  redeem 
myself  in  your  eyes." 

"Redeem  yourself?     From  what?" 

' '  Oh !  from  all  your  impressions  of  my  frivolity  and 
folly.  I  can  talk  about  art  and  literature  and  the  con- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  139 

dition  of  the  labouring  classes  as  wisely  as  anybody,  I  as 
sure  you." 

He  said  it  so  prettily  that  Althea  had  to  laugh.  "But 
what  makes  you  think  I  can  ? ' '  she  asked,  and,  delighted 
with  the  happy  result  of  his  appeal,  he  said  that  Helen 
had  told  him  all  about  her  wisdoms. 

He  sounded  these  wisdoms  next  day  when  he  asked 
her  to  walk  with  him  to  the  village.  He  told  her,  as  they 
walked,  of  the  various  projects  for  using  his  life  to  some 
advantage  that  he  had  used  to  make — projects  for  im 
proved  agricultural  methods  and  the  bettering  of  the 
conditions  of  life  in  the  country.  Althea  had  read  a 
great  deal  of  political  economy.  She  had,  indeed, 
ground  at  it  and  mastered  it  in  the  manner  advised  by 
Franklin  to  Helen.  Gerald  found  her  quiet  comments 
and  criticisms  very  illuminating,  not  only  of  his  theme, 
but  of  his  own  comparative  ignorance.  "But,  Miss 
Jakes,  how  did  you  come  to  understand  all  this?"  he 
ejaculated;  and  she  said,  laughing  a  little  at  the  im 
pression  she  had  made,  that  she  had  only  read,  gone  to 
a  few  courses  of  lectures,  and  had  a  master  for  one  win 
ter  in  Boston.  Gerald  looked  at  her  with  new  interest. 
It  impressed  him  that  an  unprofessional  woman  should 
take  anything  so  seriously.  "Have  you  gone  into  other 
profound  things  like  this?"  he  asked;  and,  still  laugh 
ing,  Althea  said  that  she  supposed  she  had. 

Her  sympathy  for  those  old  plans  of  his,  based  on  such 
understanding,  was  really  inspiring.  "Ah,  if  only  I 
had  the  money,"  he  sighed. 

' '  But  you  wouldn  't  care  to  live  in  the  country  ? ' '  said 
Althea. 


140  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

' '  There  's  nowhere  else  I  really  care  to  live.  Nothing 
would  please  me  so  much  as  to  spend  the  rest  of  my 
life  at  Merriston,  dabbling  at  my  painting  and  going 
in  seriously  for  farming. ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  do  it?" 

"Why,  money!  I  Ve  got  no  money.  It  's  expensive 
work  to  educate  oneself  by  experience,  and  I  'm  igno 
rant.  You  show  me  how  ignorant.  No;  I  'm  afraid 
I  'm  to  go  on  drifting,  and  never  lead  the  life  I  best 
like." 

Althea  was  silent.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  was 
feeling,  but  it  pressed  upon  her  so,  that  she  was  afraid 
lest  a  breath  would  stir  some  consciousness  in  him.  She 
had  money,  a  good  deal.  What  a  pity  that  he  had  none. 

"Now  you,"  Gerald  went  on,  "have  all  sorts  of  big, 
wise  plans  for  life,  I  Ve  no  doubt.  It  would  interest 
me  to  hear  about  them." 

"No;  I  drift  too,"  said  Althea. 

"You  can't  call  it  drifting  when  you  read  and  study 
such  a  lot. ' ' 

' '  Oh  yes,  I  can,  when  there  is  no  real  aim  in  the  work. 
You  should  hear  Mr.  Kane  scold  me  about  that." 

Gerald  was  not  interested  in  Mr.  Kane.  "I  should 
think,  after  all  you  Ve  done,  you  might  rest  on  your  oars 
for  a  bit,"  he  remarked.  "It  's  quite  enough,  I  should 
think,  for  a  woman  to  know  so  much.  If  you  liked  to 
do  anything,  you  'd  do  it  awfully  well,  I  'm  sure." 

Ah,  what  would  she  not  like  to  do !  Help  you  to  steer 
to  any  port  you  wanted  was  the  half-articulate  cry  of 
her  heart. 

"She  really  is  an  interesting  little  person,  your  Al 
thea."  Gerald  said  to  Helen.  "You  were  wrong  not  to 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  141 

find  her  interesting.  She  is  so  wise  and  calm  and  she 
knows  such  a  lot. ' ' 

"I  'm  too  ignorant  to  be  interested  in  knowledge," 
said  Helen. 

"It  's  not  mere  knowledge,  it  's  the  gentle  temperate- 
ness  and  independence  one  feels  in  her." 

Helen,  somehow,  did  not  feel  them,  or,  at  all  events, 
felt  other  things  too  much  to  feel  them  pre-eminently. 
It  was  part  of  her  unselfconsciousness  not  to  guess  why 
Althea's  relation  to  her  had  slightly  changed.  She 
could  hardly  have  followed  with  comprehension  the 
suffering  instability  of  her  friend 's  character,  nor  dream 
that  her  own  power  over  her  was  so  great,  yet  so  re 
sented  ;  but  something  in  their  talk  about  Mr.  Kane  had 
made  Helen  uncomfortable,  and  she  said  no  more  now, 
not  wishing  to  emphasise  any  negative  aspect  of  her  atti 
tude  to  Althea  at  a  time  when  their  relation  seemed  to 
have  become  a  little  strained.  And  she  was  pleased 
that  Gerald  should  talk  about  political  economy  with 
Althea — it  was  so  much  better  than  flirting  with  Frances 
Pickering. 

No  one,  indeed,  unless  it  were  Franklin  Kane,  gave 
much  conjecture  to  Gerald's  talks  with  his  hostess. 
Lady  Pickering  noticed;  but  she  was  vexed,  rather  than 
jealous.  She  couldn't  imagine  that  Gerald  felt  any 
thing  but  a  purely  intellectual  interest  in  such  talks.  It 
was  rather  as  if  a  worshipper  in  some  highly  ritualistic 
shrine,  filled  with  appeals  to  sight  and  hearing,  had  un 
accountably  wrandered  off  into  a  wayside  chapel.  Lady 
Pickering  felt  convinced  that  this  was  mere  vagrant 
curiosity  on  Gerald's  part.  She  felt  convinced  that  he 
couldn't  care  for  chapels.  She  was  so  convinced  that, 


142  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

moved  to  emphatic  measures,  she  came  into  the  open  as 
it  were,  marched  processions  and  waved  banners  before 
him,  in  order  to  remind  him  what  the  veritable  church 
was  for  a  person  of  taste.  Sometimes  Gerald  joined 
her,  but  sometimes  he  waved  a  friendly  greeting  and 
went  into  the  chapel  again. 

So  it  was  that  Althea  suddenly  found  herself  involved 
in  that  mute  and  sinister  warfare — an  unavowed  con 
test  with  another  woman  for  possession  of  a  man.  How 
it  could  be  a  real  contest  she  did  not  know ;  she  felt  sure 
that  Lady  Pickering  did  not  love  Gerald  Digby,  that  she 
herself  loved  him  she  had  not  yet  told  herself,  and  that 
he  loved  neither  of  them  was  obvious.  It  seemed  a  mere 
struggle  for  supremacy,  in  which  Lady  Pickering's  role 
was  active  and  her  own  passive.  For  when  she  saw  that 
Lady  Pickering  looked  upon  Gerald  as  a  prey  between 
them,  that  she  seized,  threatened  and  allured,  she  herself, 
full  of  a  proud  disdain,  drew  away,  relinquished  any 
hold,  any  faintest  claim  she  had,  handed  Gerald  over,  as 
it  were,  to  his  pursuer;  and  as  she  did  this,  coldly, 
gravely,  proudly,  she  was  not  aware  that  no  tactics 
could  have  been  more  effective.  For  Gerald,  when  he 
found  himself  pursued,  and  then  dropped  by  Althea  at 
the  feet  of  the  pursuer,  became  more  and  more  averse  to 
being  seized.  And  what  had  been  a  gracefully  amo 
rous  dialogue  with  Lady  Pickering,  became  a  slightly 
malicious  discussion.  "Well,  what  do  you  want  of 
me?"  he  seemed  to  demand  of  her,  under  all  his  grace. 
Lady  Pickering  did  not  want  anything  except  to  keep 
him,  and  to  show  Althea  that  she  kept  him.  And  she 
was  willing  to  go  to  great  lengths  if  this  might  be 
effected. 


143 

Gerald  and  Althea,  walking  one  afternoon  in  the  little 
wood  that  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn,  came  upon  Lady 
Pickering  seated  romantically  upon  a  stone,  her  head 
in  her  hands.  She  said,  looking  up  at  them,  with 
pathetic  eyes  of  suffering,  that  she  had  wrenched  her 
ankle  and  was  in  agony.  "I  think  it  is  sprained,  per 
haps  broken,"  she  said. 

Now  both  Althea  and  Gerald  felt  convinced  that  she 
was  not  in  agony,  and  had  perhaps  not  hurt  her  ankle 
at  all.  They  were  both  a  little  embarrassed  and  a  little 
ashamed  for  her. 

"Take  my  arm,  take  Miss  Jakes 's,"  said  Gerald. 
"We  will  help  you  back  to  the  house." 

"Oh,  no.  I  must  sit  still  for  a  little  while,"  said 
Lady  Pickering.  "I  couldn't  bear  to  stir  yet.  It  must 
be  only  a  wrench ;  yes,  there,  I  can  feel  that  it  is  a  bad 
wrench.  It  's  only  that  the  pain  has  been  so  horrible, 
and  I  feel  a  little  faint.  Please  sit  down  here  for  a 
moment,  Gerald,  beside  me,  and  console  me  for  my 
sufferings. ' ' 

It  was  really  very  shameless.  Without  a  word  Althea 
walked  away. 

"Miss  Jakes — we  '11 — I  '11  follow  in  a  moment,"  Ger 
ald  called  after  her,  while,  irritated  and  at  a  loss,  he 
stood  over  Lady  Pickering.  ' '  Have  you  really  hurt  it  ? " 
was  his  first  inquiry,  as  Althea  disappeared. 

"Why  does  she  go?"  Lady  Pickering  inquired.  "I 
didn't  mean  that  she  was  to  go.  Stiff,  guindee  little 
person.  One  would  really  think  that  she  was  jealous  of 
me." 

"No,  I  don't  think  that  one  would  think  that  at  all," 
Gerald  returned. 


144  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Lady  Pickering  was  pushed  beyond  the  bounds  of 
calculation,  and  when  quite  sincere  she  was  really  charm 
ing.  "Oh,  Gerald,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  and 
full  of  roguish  contrition,  "how  unkind  you  are!  And 
how  horribly  clear  sighted.  It  's  I  who  am  jealous ! 
Yes,  I  really  am.  I  can 't  bear  being  neglected. ' ' 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should,"  said  Gerald  laughing, 
"and  I  certainly  shouldn't  show  such  bad  taste  as  to 
neglect  you.  So  that  it  is  jealousy,  pure  and  simple. 
Is  your  ankle  in  the  least  hurt?" 

"Really,  I  don't  know.  I  did  tumble  a  little,  and 
then  I  saw  you  coming,  and  felt  that  I  wanted  to  be 
talked  to,  that  it  was  my  turn." 

"What  an  absurd  woman  you  are." 

"But  do  say  that  you  like  absurd  women  better  than 
solemn  ones." 

' '  I  shall  say  nothing  of  the  sort.  Sometimes  absurdity 
is  delightful,  and  sometimes  solemnity — not  that  I  find 
Miss  Jakes  in  the  least  solemn.  It  would  do  you  a  world 
of  good  to  let  her  inform  your  mind  a  little. ' ' 

"Oh,  please,  I  don't  want  to  be  informed,  it  might 
make  my  back  look  like  that.  My  foot  really  is  a  little 
hurt  you  know.  Is  it  swollen  ? ' ' 

Gerald  looked  down,  laughing,  but  very  unsympa 
thetic,  at  the  perilous  heel  and  pinched,  distorted  toe. 
"Really,  I  can't  say." 

"Do  sit  down,  there  is  plenty  of  room,  and  tell  me  you 
aren't  cross  with  me." 

"I  'm  not  at  all  cross  with  you,  but  I  'm  not  going  to 
sit  down  beside  you,"  said  Gerald.  "I  'm  going  to 
take  you  and  your  ankle  back  to  the  house  and  then 
find  Miss  Jakes  and  go  on  talking. ' ' 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  145 

"You  may  make  me  cross,"  said  Lady  Pickering, 
rising  and  leaning  her  arm  on  his. 

"I  don't  believe  I  shall.  You  really  respect  me  for 
my  strength  of  character." 

"Wily  creature!" 

"Foolish  child!"  They  were  standing  in  the  path, 
laughing  at  each  other,  far  from  displeased  with  each 
other,  and  it  was  fortunate  that  neither  of  them  per 
ceived  among  the  trees  Althea,  passing  again  at  a  little 
distance,  and  glancing  round  irrepressibly  to  see  if  Ger 
ald  had  indeed  followed  her ;  even  Lady  Pickering  might 
have  been  slightly  discomposed,  for  when  Gerald  said 
"Foolish  child!"  he  completed  the  part  expected  of  him 
by  lightly  stooping  his  head  and  kissing  her. 

He  then  took  Lady  Pickering  back  to  the  house,  es 
tablished  her  in  a  hammock,  and  set  off  to  find  Althea. 
He  knew  that  he  had  kept  her  waiting — if  she  had  in 
deed  waited.  And  he  knew  that  he  really  was  a  little 
cross  with  Frances  Pickering;  he  didn't  care  to  carry 
flirtation  as  far  as  kissing. 

Althea,  however,  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  He 
looked  in  the  house,  heard  that  she  had  been  there  but 
had  gone  out  again ;  he  looked  in  the  garden ;  he  finally 
went  back  to  the  woods,  an  uncomfortable  surmise  ris 
ing;  and  finding  her  nowhere  there,  he  strolled  on  into 
the  meadows.  Then,  suddenly,  he  saw  her,  sitting  on  a 
rustic  bench  at  a  bend  of  the  little  brook.  Her  eyes  were 
bent  upon  the  running  water,  and  she  did  not  look  up  as 
he  approached  her.  When  he  was  beside  her,  her  eyes 
met  his,  reluctantly  and  resentfully,  and  he  was  startled 
to  observe  that  she  had  wept.  His  surmise  returned. 
She  must  have  seen  him  kiss  Frances.  Yet  even  then 


146  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Gerald  did  not  know  why  it  should  make  Miss  Jakes 
weep  that  he  should  behave  like  a  donkey. 

"May  I  sit  down  here?"  he  asked,  genuinely  grieved 
and  genuinely  anxious  to  find  out  what  the  matter  was. 

"Certainly,"  said  Althea  in  chilly  tones. 

He  was  a  little  confused.  It  had  something  to  do 
with  the  kissing,  he  felt  sure.  "Miss  Jakes,  I  'm  afraid 
you  '11  never  believe  me  a  serious  person,"  he  said. 

"Why  should  you  be  serious?"  said  Althea. 

"You  are  angry  with  me,"  Gerald  remarked  dis 
mally. 

"Why  should  I  be  angry?" 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  detached  a  bit  of  loosened 
wood  from  the  seat,  and  skipped  it  over  the  water. 
"Well,  to  find  me  behaving  like  a  child  again." 

"I  should  reserve  my  anger  for  more  important  mat 
ters,"  said  Althea.  She  was  angry,  or  she  hoped  she 
was,  for,  far  more  than  anger,  it  was  misery  and  a  pas 
sion  of  shame  that  surged  in  her.  She  knew  now,  and 
she  could  not  hide  from  herself  that  she  knew;  and  yet 
he  cared  so  little  that  he  had  not  even  kept  his  promise ; 
so  little  that  he  had  stayed  behind  to  kiss  that  most  in 
decorous  woman.  If  only  she  could  make  him  think 
that  it  was  only  anger. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  angry,  and  rather  unjustly,"  said 
Gerald.  His  eyes  were  seeking  hers,  rallying,  pleading, 
perhaps  laughing  a  little  at  her.  "And  really,  you 
know,  you  are  a  little  unkind ;  I  thought  we  were  friends 
—what?" 

She  forced  herself  to  meet  those  charming  eyes,  and 
then  to  smile  back  at  him.  It  would  have  been  absurd 
not  to  smile,  but  the  effort  was  disastrous;  her  lips 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  147 

quivered;  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  rose, 
trembling  and  aghast.  ' '  I  am  very  foolish.  I  have  such 
a  headache.  Please  don't  pay  any  attention  to  me — 
it  's  the  heat,  I  think." 

She  turned  blindly  towards  the  house. 

The  pretence  of  the  headache  was,  he  knew  it  in  the 
flash  of  revelation  that  came  to  him,  on  a  par  with 
Frances's  ankle — but  with  what  a  difference  in  motive! 
Grave,  a  little  pale,  Gerald  walked  silently  beside  her 
to  the  woods.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  was 
a  little  frightened  and  a  great  deal  touched. 

"Mr.  Digby,"  Althea  said,  when  they  were  among 
the  trees  again — and  it  hurt  him  to  see  the  courage  of 
her  smile — "you  must  forgive  me  for  being  so  silly. 
It  is  the  heat,  you  know ;  and  this  headache — it  puts  one 
so  on  edge.  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  as  I  did.  Of 
course  I  'm  not  angry." 

He  was  ready  to  help  her  out  with  the  most  radiant 
tact.  "Of  course  I  knew  it  couldn't  make  any  real 
difference  to  you — the  way  I  behaved.  Only  I  don't 
like  you  to  be  even  a  little  cross  with  me." 

"I  'm  not — not  even  a  little,"  she  said. 

"We  are  friends  then,  really  friends?" 

His  smile  sustained  and  reassured  her.  Surely  he 
had  not  seen — if  he  could  smile  like  that — ever  so  lightly, 
so  merrily,  and  so  gravely  too.  Courage  came  back  to 
her.  She  could  find  a  smile  as  light  as  his  in  replying: 
"Really  friends." 


CHAPTEE  XIY 

ERALD,  after  Althea  had  gone  in,  walked  for  some 
time  in  the  garden,  taking  counsel  with  himself. 
,The  expression  of  his  face  was  still  half  touched  and  half 
alarmed.  He  smoked  two  cigarettes  and  then  came  to 
the  conclusion  that,  until  he  could  have  a  talk  with 
Helen,  there  was  no  conclusion  to  be  come  to.  He  never 
came  to  important  conclusions  unaided.  He  would  sleep 
on  it  and  then  have  a  talk  with  Helen. 

He  sought  her  out  next  morning  on  the  first  oppor 
tunity.  She  was  in  the  library  writing  letters.  She 
looked,  as  was  usual  with  her  at  early  morning  hours, 
odd  to  the  verge  of  ugliness.  It  always  took  her  some 
time  to  recover  from  the  drowsy  influences  of  the  night. 
She  was  dimmed,  as  it  were,  with  eyelids  half  awake,  and 
small  lips  pouting,  and  she  seemed  at  once  more  childlike 
and  more  worn  than  later  in  the  day.  Gerald  looked  at 
her  with  satisfaction.  To  his  observant  and  appreci 
ative  eye,  Helen  was  often  at  her  most  charming  when  at 
her  ugliest. 

"I  Ve  something  to  talk  over,"  he  said.  "Can  you 
give  me  half  an  hour  or  so?" 

She  answered,  ' '  Certainly, ' '  laying  down  her  pen,  and 
leaning  back  in  her  chair. 

' '  Your  letters  aren  't  important  ?  I  may  keep  you  for 
a  longish  time.  Perhaps  we  might  put  it  off  till  the 

afternoon  ? ' ' 

148 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  149 

"They  aren't  in  the  least  important.  You  may  keep 
me  as  long  as  you  like." 

"Thanks.  Have  a  cigarette?"  He  offered  his  case, 
and  Helen  took  one  and  lighted  it  at  the  match  he  held 
for  her,  and  then  Gerald,  lighting  his  own,  proceeded 
to  stroll  up  and  down  the  room  reflecting. 

"Helen,"  he  began,  "I  've  been  thinking  things 
over."  His  tone  was  serene,  yet  a  little  inquiring.  He 
might  have  been  thinking  over  some  rather  uncertain 
investment,  or  the  planning  of  a  rather  exacting  trip 
abroad.  Yet  Helen's  intuition  leaped  at  once  to  deeper 
significances.  Looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  lawn, 
bleached  with  dew,  the  trees,  the  distant  autumnal  up 
lands,  while  she  quietly  smoked  her  cigarette,  it  was  as 
if  her  sub-consciousness,  aroused  and  vigilant,  held  its 
breath,  waiting. 

"You  know,"  said  Gerald,  "what  I  've  always  really 
wanted  to  do  more  than  anything  else.  As  I  get  older, 
I  want  it  more  and  more,  and  get  more  and  more  tired  of 
my  shambling  sort  of  existence.  I  love  this  old  place 
and  I  love  the  country.  I  'd  like  nothing  so  much  as  to 
be  able  to  live  here,  try  my  hand  at  farming,  paint  a 
little,  read  a  little,  and  get  as  much  hunting  as  I  could." 

Helen,  blowing  a  ring  of  smoke  and  wratching  it  softly 
hover,  made  no  comment  on  these  prefatory  remarks. 

"Well,  as  you  know,"  said  Gerald,  "to  do  that  needs 
money;  and  I  Ve  none.  And  you  know  that  the  only 
solution  we  could  ever  find  was  that  I  should  marry 
money.  And  you  know  that  I  never  found  a  woman 
with  money  whom  I  liked  well  enough."  He  was  not 
looking  at  Helen  as  he  said  this;  his  eyes  were  on  the 
shabby  old  carpet  that  he  was  pacing.  And  in  the 


150  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

pause  that  followed  Helen  did  not  speak.  She  knew 
— it  was  all  that  she  had  time  to  know — that  her  si 
lence  was  expectant  only,  not  ominous.  Consciousness, 
now,  as  well  as  sub-consciousness,  seemed  rushing  to  the 
bolts  and  bars  and  windows  of  the  little  lodge  of  friend 
ship,  making  it  secure — if  still  it  might  be  made  secure 
— against  the  storm  that  gathered.  She  could  not  even 
wonder  who  Gerald  had  found.  She  had  only  time  for 
the  dreadful  task  of  defence,  so  that  no  blast  of  reality 
should  rush  in  upon  them. 

"Well,"  said  Gerald,  and  it  was  now  with  a  little 
more  inquiry  and  with  less  serenity,  "I  think,  perhaps, 
I  Ve  found  her.  I  think,  Helen,  that  your  nice  Althea 
cares  about  me,  you  know,  and  would  have  me." 

Helen  sat  still,  and  did  not  move  her  eyes  from  the 
sky  and  trees.  There  was  a  long  white  cloud  in  the  sky, 
an  island  floating  in  a  sea  of  blue.  She  noted  its  bays 
and  peninsulas,  the  azure  rivers  that  interlaced  it,  its 
soft  depressions  and  radiant  uplands.  She  never  forgot 
it.  She  could  have  drawn  the  snowy  island,  from  mem 
ory,  for  years.  All  her  life  long  she  had  waited  for  this 
moment;  all  her  life  long  she  had  lived  with  the  sword 
of  its  acceptance  in  her  heart.  She  had  thought  that 
she  had  accepted;  but  now  the  sword  turned — horribly 
turned — round  and  round  in  her  heart,  and  she  did  not 
know  what  she  should  do. 

"Well,"  Gerald  repeated,  standing  still,  and,  as  she 
knew,  looking  at  the  back  of  her  head  in  a  little  per 
plexity. 

Helen  looked  cautiously  down  at  the  cigarette  she 
held ;  it  still  smoked  languidly.  She  raised  it  to  her  lips 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  151 

and  drew  a  whiff.  Then,  after  that,  she  dared  a  further 
effort.  ' '  Well  ? "  she  repeated. 

Gerald  laughed  a  trifle  nervously.  ' '  I  asked  you, ' '  he 
reminded  her. 

She  was  able,  testing  her  strength,  as  a  tight-rope 
walker  slides  a  careful  foot  along  the  rope,  to  go  on. 
''Oh,  I  see.  And  do  you  care  about  her?" 

Gerald  was  silent  for  another  moment,  and  she 
guessed  that  he  had  run  his  hand  through  his  hair  and 
rumpled  it  on  end. 

"She  really  is  a  little  dear,  isn't  she?"  he  then  said. 
"You  mayn't  find  her  interesting — though  I  really  do; 
and  she  may  be  like  eau  rougie;  but,  as  you  said,  it  's  a 
pleasant  draught  to  have  beside  one.  She  is  gentle  and 
wise  and  good,  and  she  seems  to  take  her  place  here  very 
sweetly,  doesn't  she?  She  seems  really  to  belong  here, 
don't  you  think  so?" 

Helen  could  not  answer  that  question.  * '  Do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you  whether  you  care  for  her?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed.     "I  suppose  I  do." 

"And  on  the  whole,  you  hope  I  '11  tell  you  that  you 
do." 

' '  Well,  yes, ' '  he  assented. 

The  dreadful  steeling  of  her  will  at  the  very  verge  of 
swooning  abysses  gave  an  edge  to  her  voice.  She  tried 
to  dull  it,  to  speak  very  quietly  and  mildly,  as  she  said : 
"I  must  have  all  the  facts  of  the  case  before  me,  then. 
I  confess  I  hadn't  suspected  it  was  a  case." 

"Which  means  that  you  'd  never  dreamed  I  could 
fall  in  love  with  Miss  Jakes. ' '  Gerald 's  tone  was  a  little 
rueful. 


152  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

' '  Oh — you  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  ? ' ' 

"Why,  that  's  just  what  I  'm  asking  you!"  he  laughed 
again.  "Or,  at  least,  not  that  exactly,  for  of  course 
it  's  not  a  question  of  being  in  love.  But  I  think  her 
wise  and  good  and  gentle,  and  she  cares  for  me — I  think ; 
and  it  seems  almost  like  the  finger  of  destiny — finding 
her  here.  Have  you  any  idea  how  much  money  she  has  ? 
It  must  be  quite  a  lot, ' '  said  Gerald. 

Helen  was  ready  with  her  facts.  "A  very  safe  three 
thousand  a  year,  I  believe.  Not  much,  of  course,  but 
quite  enough  for  what  you  want  to  do.  But,"  she 
added,  after  the  pause  in  which  he  reflected  on  this  sum 
— it  was  a  good  deal  less  than  he  had  taken  for  granted 
— "I  don't  think  that  Althea  would  marry  you  on  that 
basis.  She  is  very  proud  and  very  romantic.  If  you 
want  her  to  marry  you,  you  will  have  to  make  her  feel 
that  you  care  for  her  in  herself."  It  was  her  own  pride 
that  now  steadied  her  pulses  and  steeled  her  nerves. 
She  would  be  as  fair  to  Gerald's  case  as  though  he  were 
her  brother;  she  would  be  too  fair,  perhaps.  Here  was 
the  pitfall  of  her  pride  that  she  did  not  clearly  see. 
Perhaps  it  was  with  a  grim  touch  of  retribution  that  she 
promised  herself  that  since  he  could  think  of  Althea 
Jakes,  he  most  certainly  should  have  her. 

"Yes,  she  is  proud,"  said  Gerald.  "That  's  one  of 
the  things  one  so  likes  in  her.  She  'd  never  hold  out  a 
finger,  however  much  she  cared." 

"You  will  have  to  hold  out  both  hands,"  said  Helen. 

"You  think  she  won't  have  me  unless  I  can  pretend 
to  be  in  love  with  her?  I  'm  afraid  I  can't  take  that 
on." 

"I  'm  glad  you  can't.     She  is  too  good  for  such  usage. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  153 

No,"  said  Helen,  holding  her  scales  steadily,  "perfect 
frankness  is  the  only  way.  If  she  knows  that  you  really 
care  for  her — even  if  you  are  not  romantic — if  you  can 
make  her  feel  that  the  money — though  a  necessity — is 
secondary,  and  wouldn't  have  counted  at  all  unless  you 
had  come  to  care,  I  should  say  that  your  chances  are 
good — since  you  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  has 
fallen  in  love  with  you." 

"It  's  not  as  if  I  denied  her  anything  I  had  to  give, 
is  it?"  Gerald  pondered  on  the  point  of  conscience 
she  put  before  him. 

' '  You  mean  that  you  're  incapable  of  caring  more  for 
any  woman  than  for  Althea  ? ' ' 

"Of  course  not.  I  care  a  great  deal  more  for  you," 
said  Gerald,  again  rather  rueful  under  her  probes.  "I 
only  mean  that  I  'm  not  likely  to  fall  in  love  again,  or 
anything  of  that  sort.  She  can  be  quite  secure  about 
me.  I  '11  be  her  devoted  and  faithful  husband." 

"I  think  you  care,"  said  Helen.  "I  think  you  can 
make  her  happy." 

But  Gerald  now  came  and  sat  on  the  corner  of  the 
writing-table  beside  her,  facing  her,  his  back  to  the 
wdndow.  "It  's  a  tremendous  thing  to  decide  on,  isn't 
it,  Helen?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him,  and  he  looked  at  her  with 
a  gaze  troubled  and  a  little  groping,  as  though  he  sought 
in  her  further  elucidations ;  as  though,  for  the  first  time, 
she  had  disappointed  him  a  little. 

"Is  it?"  she  asked.  "Is  marriage  really  a  tre 
mendous  thing?" 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

"I  'm  not  sure.     In  one  way,  of  course,  it  is.     But 


154  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

people,  perhaps,  exaggerate  the  influence  of  their  own 
choice  on  the  results.  You  can't  be  sure  of  results, 
choose  as  carefully  as  you  will;  it  's  what  comes  after 
that  decides  them,  I  imagine — the  devotion,  the  fidelity 
you  speak  of.  And  since  you  've  found  some  one  to 
whom  you  can  promise  those,  some  one  wise  and  good 
and  gentle,  isn't  that  all  that  you  need  be  sure  of?" 

Gerald  continued  to  study  her  face.  "You  're  not 
pleased,  Helen,"  he  now  said.  It  was  a  curious  form 
of  torture  that  Helen  must  smile  under. 

"Well,  it  's  not  a  case  for  enthusiasm,  is  it?"  she 
said.  "I  'm  certainly  not  displeased." 

"You  'd  rather  I  married  her  than  Frances  Picker 
ing?" 

"Would  Frances  have  you,  too,  irresistible  one?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so;  pretty  sure  not.  She  would 
want  a  lot  of  things  I  can 't  give.  I  was  only  wondering 
which  you'd  prefer." 

Helen  heard  the  clamour  of  her  own  heart.  Frances ! 
Frances!  She  is  trivial;  she  will  not  take  your  place; 
she  will  not  count  in  his  life  at  all.  Althea  will  count ; 
she  will  count  more  and  more.  She  will  be  his  habit, 
his  haus-frau,  the  mother  of  his  children.  He  is  not  in 
love  with  her ;  but  he  will  come  to  love  her,  and  there  will 
be  no  place  for  friendship  in  his  life.  Hearing  that 
clamour  she  dragged  herself  together,  hating  herself  for 
having  heard  it,  and  answered :  ' '  Althea,  of  course ;  she 
is  worth  three  of  Frances." 

Gerald  gave  a  little  sigh.  "Well,  I  'm  glad  we  agree 
there,"  he  said.  "I  'm  glad  you  see  that  Althea  is 
worth  three  of  her.  What  I  do  wish  is  that  you  cared 
more  about  Althea." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLCXW!  KANE  155 

What  he  was  telling  her  was  that  if  she  would  care 
more  about  Althea,  he  would  too,  and  she  wondered  if 
this,  also,  were  a  part  of  pride;  should  she  help  him  to 
care  more  for  Althea  ?  A  better  pride  sustained  her ;  she 
felt  the  danger  in  these  subtleties  of  her  torment.  "I 
like  Althea,"  she  said.  "I,  too,  think  that  she  is  wise 
and  good  and  gentle.  I  think  that  she  will  be  the  best  of 
wives,  the  best  of  wives  and  mothers.  But,  as  I  said, 
I  don't  feel  enthusiasm;  I  don't  feel  it  a  case  for  en 
thusiasm.  ' ' 

"Of  course  it  's  not  a  case  for  enthusiasm,"  said  Ger 
ald,  who  was  evidently  eager  to  range  himself  completely 
with  her.  ''I  'm  fond,  and  I  '11  grow  fonder;  and  I 
believe  you  will  too.  Don't  you,  Helen?" 

' '  No  doubt  I  shall, ' '  said  Helen.  She  got  up  now  and 
tossed  her  cigarette  into  the  waste-paper  basket,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  past  Gerald's  head  at  the 
snowy  island,  now  half  dissolved  in  blue,  as  though  its 
rivers  had  engulfed  it.  They  were  parting,  he  and  she, 
she  knew  it,  and  yet  there  was  no  word  that  she  could 
say  to  him,  no  warning  or  appeal  that  she  could  utter. 
If  he  could  see  that  it  was  the  end  he  would,  she  knew, 
start  back  from  his  shallow  project.  But  he  did  not 
know  that  it  was  the  end  and  he  might  never  know. 
Did  he  not  really  understand  that  an  adoring  wife  could 
not  be  fitted  into  their  friendship?  His  innocent  un 
consciousness  of  inevitable  change  made  Helen's  heart, 
in  its  deeper  knowledge  of  human  character,  sink  to  a 
bitterness  that  felt  like  a  hatred  of  him,  and  she  won 
dered,  looking  forward,  whether  Gerald  would  ever  miss 
anything,  or  ever  know  that  anything  was  gone. 

Gerald  sat  still  looking  up  at  her  as  though  expecting 


156  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

some  further  suggestion,  and  as  her  eyes  came  back  to 
him,  she  smiled  to  him  with  deliberate  sweetness,  show 
ing  him  thus  that  her  conclusions  were  all  friendly. 
And  he  rose,  smiling  back,  reassured  and  fortified. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "since  you  approve,  I  suppose  it  's 
settled.  I  shan't  ask  her  at  once,  you  know.  She  might 
think  it  was  because  of  what  I  'd  guessed.  I  '11  lead  up 
to  it  for  a  day  or  two.  And,  Helen,  you  might,  if 
you  Ve  a  chance,  put  in  a  good  word  for  me." 

' '  I  will,  if  I  have  a  chance, ' '  said  Helen. 

Gerald,  as  if  aware  that  he  had  taken  up  really  too 
much  of  her  time,  now  moved  towards  the  door.  But 
he  went  slowly,  and  at  the  door  he  paused.  He  turned 
to  her  smiling.  "And  you  give  me  your  blessing?"  he 
asked. 

He  was  most  endearing  when  he  smiled  so.  It  was  a 
smile  like  a  child's,  that  caressed  and  cajoled,  and  that 
saw  through  its  own  cajolery  and  pleaded,  with  a  little 
wistfulness,  that  there  was  more  than  could  show  itself, 
behind.  Helen  knew  what  was  behind — the  sense  of 
strangeness,  the  affection  and  the  touch  of  fear.  She 
had  never  refused  that  smile  anything;  she  seemed  to 
refuse  it  nothing  now,  as  she  answered,  with  a  maternal 
acquiescence,  ' '  I  give  you  my  blessing,  dear  Gerald. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  was  still  early.  "When  he  had  left  her,  Helen 
looked  at  her  watch;  only  half-past  ten.  She 
stood  thinking.  Should  she  go  out,  as  usual,  take  her 
place  in  a  long  chair  under  the  limes,  close  her  eyes  and 
pretend  to  sleep  ?  No,  she  could  not  do  that.  Should 
she  sit  down  in  her  room  with  Dante  and  a  dictionary  ? 
No,  that  she  would  not  do.  Should  she  walk  far  away 
into  the  woods  and  lie  upon  the  ground  and  weep  ?  That 
would  be  a  singularly  foolish  plan,  and  at  lunch  every 
body  would  see  that  she  had  been  crying.  Yet  it  was 
impossible  to  remain  here,  to  remain  still,  and  thinking. 
She  must  move  quickly,  and  make  her  body  tired.  She 
went  to  her  room,  pinned  on  her  hat,  drew  on  her  gloves, 
and,  choosing  a  stick  as  she  went  through  the  hall, 
passed  from  the  grounds  and  through  the  meadow  walk 
to  a  long  road,  climbing  and  winding,  whose  walls,  at 
either  side,  seemed  to  hold  back  the  billows  of  the 
woodland.  The  day  was  hot  and  dusty.  The  sky  was 
like  a  blue  stone,  the  green  monotonous,  the  road  glared 
white.  Helen,  with  the  superficial  fretfulness  of  an 
agony  controlled,  said  to  herself  that  nothing  more  like 
a  bad  water-colour  landscape  could  be  imagined;  there 
were  the  unskilful  blots  of  heavy  foliage,  the  sleekly 
painted  sky,  and  the  sunny  road  was  like  the  whiteness 
of  the  paper,  picked  out,  for  shadows,  in  niggling  cobalt. 
A  stupid,  bland,  heartless  day. 

157 


158  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

She  walked  along  this  road  for  several  miles  and  left 
it  to  cross  a  crisp,  grassy  slope  from  where,  standing 
still  and  turning  to  see,  she  looked  down  over  all  the 
country  and  saw,  far  away,  the  roofs  of  Merriston  House. 
She  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  down  at  it,  the  hot 
wind  ruffling  her  skirts  and  hair.  It  was  a  heartless 
day  and  she  herself  felt  heartless.  She  felt  herself  as 
something  silent,  swift,  and  raging.  For  now  she  was 
to  taste  to  the  full  the  bitter  difference  between  the 
finality  of  personal  decision  and  a  finality  imposed,  fate- 
fully  and  irrevocably,  from  without.  She  had  thought 
herself  prepared  for  this  ending  of  hope.  She  had  even, 
imagining  herself  hardened  and  indifferent,  gone  in  ad 
vance  of  it  and  had  sought  to  put  the  past  under  her 
feet  and  to  build  up  a  new  life.  But  she  had  not  been 
prepared;  that  she  now  knew.  The  imagination  of  the 
fact  was  not  its  realisation  in  her  very  blood  and  bones, 
nor  the  standing  ready,  armed  for  the  blow,  this  feel  of 
the  blade  between  her  ribs.  And  looking  down  at  the 
only  home  she  had  ever  had,  in  moments  long,  sharp, 
dreamlike,  her  strength  was  drained  from  her  as  if  by  a 
fever,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  changed  all  through 
and  that  each  atom  of  her  being  was  set,  as  it  were,  a 
little  differently,  making  of  her  a  new  personality, 
through  this  shock  of  sudden  hopelessness. 

She  felt  her  knees  weak  beneath  her  and  she  moved 
on  slowly,  away  from  the  sun,  to  a  lonely  little  wood 
that  bordered  the  hill-top.  In  her  sudden  weakness  she 
climbed  the  paling  that  enclosed  it  with  some  difficulty, 
wondering  if  she  were  most  inconveniently  going  to 
faint,  and  walking  blindly  along  a  narrow  path,  in  the 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  159 

sudden  cool  and  darkness,  she  dropped  down  on  the  moss 
at  the  first  turning  of  the  way. 

Here,  at  last,  was  beauty.  The  light,  among  the  fan- 
like  branches,  looked  like  sea-water  streaked  with  gold; 
the  tall  boles  of  the  beeches  were  like  the  pillars  of  a 
temple  sunken  in  the  sea.  Helen  lay  back,  folded  her 
arms  behind  her  head,  and  stared  up  at  the  chinks  of 
far  brightness  in  the  green  roof  overhead.  It  was  like 
being  drowned,  deep  beneath  the  surface  of  things.  If 
only  she  could  be  at  peace,  like  a  drowned  thing.  Lying 
there,  she  longed  to  die,  to  dissolve  away  into  the  moss, 
the  earth,  the  cool,  green  air.  And  feeling  this,  in  the 
sudden  beauty,  tears,  for  the  first  time,  came  to  her  eyes. 
She  turned  over  on  her  face,  burying  it  in  her  arms  and 
muttering  in  childish  language,  "  I  'm  sick  of  it ;  sick  to 
death  of  it." 

As  she  spoke  she  was  awrare  that  some  one  was  near 
her.  A  sudden  footfall,  a  sudden  pause,  followed  her 
words.  She  lifted  her  head,  then  she  sat  up.  The  tears 
had  flowed  and  her  cheeks  were  wet  with  them,  but  of 
that  she  was  not  conscious,  so  great  was  her  surprise  at 
finding  Franklin  Winslow  Kane  standing  before  her  on 
the  mossy  path. 

Mr.  Kane  carried  his  straw  hat  in  his  hand.  He  was 
very  warm,  his  hair  was  untidy  on  his  moist  brow,  his 
boots  were  white  with  dust,  his  trousers  were  turned  up 
from  them  and  displayed  an  inch  or  so  of  thin  ankle 
encased  in  oatmeal-coloured  socks.  His  tie — Helen 
noted  the  one  salient  detail  among  the  many  dull  ones 
that  made  up  a  whole  so  incongruous  with  the  magic 
scene — was  of  a  peculiarly  harsh  and  ugly  shade  of  blue. 


160  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

He  had  only  just  climbed  over  a  low  wall  near  by  and 
that  was  why  he  had  come  upon  her  so  inaudibly  and 
had,  so  inadvertently,  been  a  witness  of  her  grief. 

He  did  not,  however,  show  embarrassment,  but  looked 
at  her  with  the  hesitant  yet  sympathetic  attentiveness 
of  a  vagrant  dog. 

Helen  sat  on  the  moss,  her  feet  extended  before  her, 
and  she  returned  his  look  from  her  tearful  eyes,  mak 
ing  no  attempt  to  soften  the  oddity  of  the  situation. 
She  found,  indeed,  a  gloomy  amusement  in  it,  and  was 
aware  of  wondering  what  Mr.  Kane,  who  made  so  much 
of  everything,  would  make  of  their  mutual  predica 
ment. 

' '  Have  you  been  having  a  long  walk,  too  1 ' '  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling  now  a  little,  as  if  he  wagged 
a  responsive  tail;  but  he  was  not  an  ingratiating  dog, 
only  a  friendly  and  a  troubled  one. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  he  said.  "We  have  got  rather  a  long 
way  off,  Miss  Buchanan." 

"That  's  a  comfort  sometimes,  isn't  it,"  said  Helen. 
She  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  dried  her  eyes,  draw 
ing  herself,  then,  into  a  more  comfortable  position 
against  the  trunk  of  a  beech-tree. 

"You  'd  rather  I  went  away,  wouldn't  you,"  said 
Mr.  Kane ;  ' '  but  let  me  say  first  that  I  'm  very  sorry  to 
have  intruded,  and  very  sorry  indeed  to  see  that  you  're 
unhappy. ' ' 

She  now  felt  that  she  did  not  want  him  to  go,  indeed 
she  felt  that  she  would  rather  he  stayed.  After  the  lone 
liness  of  her  despair,  she  liked  the  presence  of  the 
friendly,  wandering  dog.  It  would  be  comforting  to 
have  it  sit  down  beside  you  and  to  have  it  thud  its  tail 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  161 

when  you  chanced  to  look  at  it.  Mr.  Kane  would  not 
intrude,  he  would  be  a  consolation. 

"No,  don't  go,"  she  said.  "Do  sit  down  and  rest. 
It  's  frightfully  hot,  isn't  it." 

He  sat  down  in  front  of  her,  clasping  his  knees  about, 
as  was  his  wont,  and  exposing  thereby  not  only  the  en 
tire  oatmeal  sock,  but  a  section  of  leg  nearly  matching 
it  in  tint. 

' '  Well,  I  am  rather  tired, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I.  've  lost  my 
way,  I  guess. ' '  And,  looking  about  him,  he  went  on : 
"Very  peaceful  things  aren't  they,  the  woods.  Trees 
are  very  peaceful  things,  pacifying  things,  I  mean. ' ' 

Helen  looked  up  at  them.  "Yes,  they  are  peaceful. 
I  don't  know  that  I  find  them  pacifying." 

His  eyes  came  back  to  her  and  he  considered  her  again 
for  a  moment  before  he  said,  smiling  gently,  "I  Ve  been 
crying  too." 

In  the  little  pause  that  followed  this  announcement 
they  continued  to  look  at  each  other,  and  it  was  not  so 
much  that  their  eyes  sounded  the  other's  eyes  as  that 
they  deepened  for  each  other  and,  without  effort  or  sur 
prise,  granted  to  each  other  the  quiet  avowal  of  complete 
sincerity. 

"I  'm  very  sorry  that  you  are  unhappy,  too,"  said 
Helen.  She  noticed  now  that  his  eyes  were  jaded  and 
that  all  his  clear,  terse  little  face  was  softened  and  re 
laxed. 

"Yes,  I  'm  unhappy,"  said  Franklin.  "It  's  queer, 
isn't  it,  that  we  should  find  each  other  like  this.  I  'm 
glad  I  Ve  found  you:  two  unhappy  people  are  better 
together,  I  think,  than  alone.  It  eases  things  a  little, 
don't  you  think  so?" 


162  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Perhaps  it  does,"  said  Helen.  "That  is,  it  does 
if  one  of  them  is  so  kind  and  so  pacifying  as  you  are; 
you  do  remind  me  of  the  trees,"  she  smiled. 

"Ah,  well,  that  's  very  sweet  of  you,  very  sweet  in 
deed,"  said  Franklin,  looking  about  him  at  the  limpid 
green.  "It  makes  me  feel  I  'm  not  intruding,  to  have 
you  say  that  to  me.  It  didn't  follow,  of  course,  because 
I  'm  glad  to  find  you  that  you  would  be  glad  I  'd  come. 
You  don't  show  it  much,  Miss  Buchanan" — he  was  look 
ing  at  her  again — "your  crying." 

"I  'm  always  afraid  that  I  show  it  dreadfully. 
That  's  the  worst  of  it,  I  don't  dare  indulge  in  it  of 
ten." 

"No,  you  don't  show  it  much.  You  sometimes  look 
as  though  you  had  been  crying  when  I  'm  sure  you 
haven't — early  in  the  morning,  for  instance." 

Helen  could  but  smile  again.  "You  are  very  observ 
ant.  You  really  noticed  that  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  that  I  'm  so  very  observant,  Miss 
Buchanan,  but  I  'm  interested  in  everybody,  and  I  'm 
particularly  interested  in  you,  so  that  of  course  I  notice 
things  like  that.  Now  you  aren't  particularly  interested 
in  me — though  you  are  so  kind — are  you?"  and  again 
Mr.  Kane  smiled  his  weary,  gentle  smile. 

It  seemed  very  natural  to  sit  under  peaceful  trees 
and  talk  to  Mr.  Kane,  and  it  was  easy  to  be  perfectly 
frank  with  him.  Helen  answered  his  smile.  "No,  I  'm 
not.  I  'in  quite  absorbed  in  my  own  affairs.  I  'm  in 
terested  in  hardly  anybody.  I  'm  very  selfish." 

"Ah,  you  would  find  that  you  wouldn't  suffer  so — in 
just  your  way,  I  mean — if  you  were  less  selfish,"  Frank 
lin  Kane  remarked. 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  163 

» 

"What  other  way  is  there?"  Helen  asked.  "What 
is  your  way  ? ' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  Ve  found  a  much  better 
one,  our  ways  seem  to  have  brought  us  to  pretty  much 
the  same  place,  haven't  they,"  he  almost  mused. 
"That  's  the  worst  of  suffering,  it  's  pretty  much  alike, 
at  all  times  and  in  all  ways.  I  'm  not  unselfish  either, 
you  know,  a  mighty  long  way  from  it.  But  I  'm  not 
sick  of  it,  you  know,  not  sick  to  death  of  it.  Forgive 
me  if  I  offend  in  repeating  your  words." 

"You  are  unselfish,  I  'm  sure  of  that,"  said  Helen. 
"And  so  you  must  have  other  things  to  live  for.  My 
life  is  very  narrow,  and  when  things  I  care  about  are 
ruined  I  see  nothing  further." 

"Things  are  never  ruined  in  life,  Miss  Buchanan. 
As  long  as  there  is  life  there  is  hope  and  action  and  love. 
As  long  as  you  can  love  you  can't  be  sick  to  death  of 
it."  Mr.  Kane  spoke  in  his  deliberate,  monotonous 
tones. 

Helen  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  She  was  wonder 
ing;  not  about  Mr.  Kane,  nor  about  his  suffering,  nor 
about  the  oddity  of  thus  talking  with  him  about  her 
own.  It  was  no  more  odd  to  talk  to  him  than  if  he  had 
been  the  warm-hearted  dog,  dowered  for  her  benefit  with 
speech;  she  was  wondering  about  what  he  said  and 
about  that  love  to  which  he  alluded.  "Perhaps  I  don't 
know  much  about  love,"  she  said,  and  more  to  herself 
than  to  Mr.  Kane. 

"I  've  inferred  that  since  knowing  you,"  said 
Franklin. 

"I  mean,  of  course,"  Helen  defined,  "the  selfless  love 
you  are  talking  of." 


164  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Franklin.  "Now,  you 
see,  the  other  sort  of  love,  the  sort  that  makes  people  go 
away  and  cry  in  the  woods — for  I  've  been  crying  be 
cause  I  'm  hopelessly  in  love,  Miss  Buchanan,  and  I 
presume  that  you  are  too — well,  that  sort  of  love  can't 
escape  ruin  sometimes.  That  side  of  life  may  go  to 
pieces  and  then  there  's  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  cry. 
But  that  side  isn't  all  life,  Miss  Buchanan." 

Helen  did  not  repudiate  his  interpretation  of  her  grief. 
She  was  quite  willing  that  Mr.  Kane  should  know  why 
she  had  been  crying,  but  she  did  not  care  to  talk  about 
that  side  to  him.  It  had  been  always,  and  it  would 
always  be,  she  feared,  all  life  to  her.  She  looked  som 
brely  before  her  into  the  green  vistas. 

' '  Of  course, ' '  Franklin  went  on,  ' '  I  don 't  know  any 
thing  about  your  hopeless  love  affair.  I  'm  only  sure 
that  your  tragedy  is  a  noble  one  and  that  you  are  up 
to  it,  you  know — as  big  as  it  is.  If  it  's  hopeless,  it  's 
not,  I  'm  sure,  because  of  anything  in  you.  It  's  be 
cause  of  fate,  or  circumstance,  or  some  unworthiness 
in  the  person  you  care  for.  Now  with  me  one  of  the 
hardest  things  to  bear  is  the  fact  that  I  Ve  nothing  to 
blame  but  myself.  I  'm  not  adequate,  that  's  the 
trouble;  no  charm,  you  see,"  Mr.  Kane  again  almost 
mused,  "no  charm.  Charm  is  the  great  thing,  and  it 
means  more  than  it  seems  to  mean,  all  evolution,  the 
survival  of  the  fittest — natural  selection — is  in  it,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it.  If  I  'd  had  charm,  personality, 
or,  well,  greatness  of  some  sort,  I  'd  have  probably 
won  Althea  long  ago.  You  know,  of  course,  that  it  's 
Althea  I  'm  in  love  with,  and  have  been  for  years  and 
years.  Well,  there  it  is,"  Franklin  was  picking  tall 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  165 

blades  of  grass  that  grew  in  a  little  tuft  near  by  and 
putting  them  neatly  together  as  he  spoke.  "There  it 
is,  but  even  with  the  pain  of  just  that  sort  of  failure 
to  bear,  I  don't  intend  that  my  life  shall  be  ruined. 
It  can't  be,  by  the  loss  of  that  hope.  I  'm  not  good 
enough  for  Althea.  I  Ve  got  to  accept  that;  natural 
selection  rejects  me,"  looking  up  from  his  grass  blades 
he  smiled  gravely  at  his  companion ;  ' '  but  I  'm  good 
enough  for  other  beautiful  things  that  need  serving. 
And  I  'm  good  enough  to  go  on  being  Althea 's  friend, 
to  be  of  some  value  to  her  in  that  capacity.  So  my  life 
isn't  ruined,  not  by  a  long  way,  and  I  wish  you  'd  try 
to  feel  the  same  about  yours. ' ' 

Helen  didn't  feel  in  the  least  inclined  to  try,  but  she 
found  herself  deeply  interested  in  Mr.  Kane 's  attitude ; 
for  the  first  time  Mr.  Kane  had  roused  her  intent  in 
terest.  She  looked  hard  at  him  while  he  sat  there, 
demonstrating  to  her  the  justice  of  life's  dealings  with 
him  and  laying  one  blade  of  grass  so  accurately  against 
another,  and  she  was  wondering  now  about  him.  It  was 
not  because  she  thought  her  own  feelings  sacred  that 
she  preferred  them  to  be  concealed,  but  she  saw  that 
Mr.  Kane's  were  no  less  sacred  to  him  for  being  thus 
unconcealed.  She  even  guessed  that  his  revelation  of 
feeling  was  less  for  his  personal  relief  than  for  her  per 
sonal  benefit ;  that  he  was  carrying  out,  in  all  the  depths 
of  his  sincerity,  a  wish  to  comfort  her,  to  take  her 
out  of  herself.  "Well,  he  had  taken  her  out  of  herself, 
and  after  having  heard  that  morning  what  Althea 's 
significance  could  be  in  the  life  of  another  man,  she 
was  curious  to  find  what  her  so  different  significance 
could  be  in  the  life  of  this  one,  as  alien  from  Gerald  in 


166  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

type  and  temperament  as  it  was  possible  to  imagine. 
Why  did  Althea  mean  anything  at  all  to  Gerald,  and 
why  did  she  mean  everything  to  Mr.  Kane?  And 
through  what  intuition  of  the  truth  had  Mr.  Kane  come 
to  his  present  hopelessness? 

"Do  you  think  women  always  fall  in  love  with  the 
adequate  man,  and  vice  versa  f"  she  asked,  and  her 
eyes  were  gentle  as  they  mused  on  him.  ''Why  should 
you  say  that  it  's  because  you  're  not  adequate  that 
Althea  isn  't  in  love  with  you  ? ' ' 

Franklin  fixed  his  eye  upon  her  and  it  had  now  a 
new  light,  it  deepened  for  other  problems  than  Helen's 
and  his  own.  "Not  adequate  for  her — not  what  she 
wants — that  's  my  point,"  he  said.  "But  there  are 
other  sorts  of  mistakes  to  make,  of  course.  If  Althea 
falls  in  love  with  a  man  equipped  as  I  'm  not  equipped, 
that  does  prove  that  I  lack  something  that  would 
have  won  her;  but  it  doesn't  prove  that  she  's  found 
the  right  man.  We  've  got  beyond  natural  selection 
when  it  comes  to  life  as  a  whole.  He  may  be  the  man 
for  her  to  fall  in  love  with,  but  is  he  the  man  to  make 
her  happy?  That  's  just  the  question  for  me,  Miss 
Buchanan,  and  I  wish  you  'd  help  me  with  it. ' ' 

"Help  you?"  Helen  rather  faltered. 

"Yes,  please  try.  You  must  see — I  see  it  plainly 
enough — that  Mr.  Digby  is  going  to  marry  Althea." 
He  actually  didn't  add,  "If  she  '11  have  him."  Helen 
wondered  how  far  his  perspicacity  went;  had  he  seen 
what  Gerald  had  seen,  and  what  she  had  not  seen  at 
all? 

"You  think  it  's  Gerald  who  is  in  love  with  her?"  she 
asked. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  167 

Again  Franklin's  eye  was  on  her,  and  she  now  saw 
in  it  his  deep  perplexity.  She  couldn't  bear  to  add  to 
it.  "I  Ve  guessed  nothing,"  she  said.  "You  must  en 
lighten  me." 

"I  wasn't  sure  at  first,"  said  Franklin,  groping  his 
way.  "He  seemed  so  devoted  to  Lady  Pickering;  but 
for  some  days  it  's  been  obvious,  hasn't  it,  that  that 
wasn't  in  the  least  serious?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"I  couldn't  have  reconciled  myself,"  said  Franklin, 
"to  the  idea  of  a  man,  who  could  take  Lady  Pickering 
seriously,  marrying  Althea.  I  can't  quite  reconcile  my 
self  to  the  idea  of  a  man  who  could,  well,  be  so  devoted 
to  Lady  Pickering,  marrying  Althea.  He  's  your  friend, 
I  know,  Miss  Buchanan,  as  well  as  your  relative,  but 
you  know  what  I  feel  for  Althea,  and  you  '11  forgive  my 
saying  that  if  I  'm  not  big  enough  for  her  he  isn't  big 
enough  either;  no,  upon  my  soul,  he  isn't." 

Helen's  eyes  dwelt  on  him.  She  knew  that,  with  all 
the  forces  of  concealment  at  her  command,  she  wanted 
to  keep  from  Mr.  Kane  the  blighting  irony  of  her  own 
inner  comments;  above  everything,  now,  she  dreaded 
lest  her  irony  should  touch  one  of  Mr.  Kane's  ideals. 
It  was  so  beautiful  of  him  to  think  himself  not  big 
enough  for  Althea,  that  she  was  well  content  that  he 
should  see  Gerald  in  the  same  category  of  unfitness. 
Perhaps  Gerald  was  not  big  enough  for  Althea;  Ger 
ald's  bigness  didn't  interest  Helen;  the  great  point 
for  her  was  that  Mr.  Kane  should  not  guess  that  she 
considered  Althea  not  big  enough  for  him.  "If  Gerald 
is  the  lucky  man,"  she  said,  after  the  pause  in  which 
she  gazed  at  him;  "if  she  cares  enough  for  Gerald  to 


168  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

marry  him,  then  I  think  he  will  make  her  happy;  and 
that  's  the  chief  thing,  isn  't  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Kane  could  not  deny  that  it  was,  and  yet,  evi 
dently,  he  was  not  satisfied.  "I  believe  you  '11  forgive 
me  if  I  go  on,"  he  said.  "You  see  it  's  so  tremendously 
important  to  me,  and  what  I  'm  going  to  say  isn 't  really 
at  all  offensive — I  mean,  people  of  your  world  and  Mr. 
Digby  's  world  wouldn  't  find  it  so.  I  11  tell  you  the  root 
of  my  trouble,  Miss  Buchanan.  Your  friend  is  a  poor 
man,  isn't  he,  and  Althea  is  a  fairly  rich  woman.  Can 
you  satisfy  me  on  this  point.  I  can  give  Althea  up ; 
I  must  give  her  up ;  but  I  can  hardly  bear  it  if  I  'm  to 
give  her  up  to  a  mere  fortune-hunter,  however  happy 
he  may  be  able  to  make  her." 

Helen's  cheeks  had  coloured  slightly.  "Gerald  isn't 
a  mere  fortune-hunter,"  she  said.  "People  of  my 
world  do  think  fortune-hunting  offensive." 

"Forgive  me  then,"  said  Franklin,  gazing  at  her, 
contrite  but  unperturbed.  "I  'm  very  ignorant  of  your 
world.  May  I  put  it  a  little  differently.  Would  Mr. 
Digby  be  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  if  she 
hadn't  a  penny?" 

She  had  quite  forgiven  him.  She  smiled  a  little  in 
answering.  "He  has  often  fallen  in  love  with  women 
without  a  penny,  but  he  could  hardly  marry  a  woman 
who  hadn't  one." 

"He  wouldn't  wish  to  marry  Althea,  then,  if  she  had 
no  money?" 

"However  much  he  would  wish  it,  I  don't  think  he 
would  be  so  foolish  as  to  do  it,"  said  Helen. 

"Can't  a  man  worth  his  salt  work  for  the  woman  he 
loves?" 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  169 

"A  man  well  worth  his  salt  may  not  be  trained  for 
making  money,"  Helen  returned.  She  knew  the  ques 
tion  clamouring  in  his  heart,  the  question  he  must  not 
ask,  nor  she  answer:  "Is  he  in  love  with  Althea?" 
Mr.  Kane  could  never  accept  nor  understand  what  the 
qualified  answer  to  such  a  question  would  have  to  be, 
and  she  must  leave  him  with  his  worst  perplexity  un 
solved.  But  one  thing  she  could  do  for  him,  and  she 
hoped  that  it  might  soften  a  little  the  bitterness  of  his 
uncertainty.  The  sunlight  suddenly  had  failed,  and  a 
slight  wind  passed  among  the  boughs  overhead.  Helen 
got  upon  her  feet,  straightening  her  hat  and  putting 
back  her  hair.  It  was  time  to  be  going  homewards. 
They  went  down  the  path  and  climbed  over  the  palings, 
and  it  was  on  the  hill-top  that  Helen  said,  looking  far 
ahead  of  her,  far  over  the  now  visible  roofs  of  Mer- 
riston : 

"I  've  known  Gerald  Digby  all  my  life,  and  I  know 
Althea,  now,  quite  well.  And  if  Gerald  is  to  be  the 
lucky  man  I  'd  like  to  say,  for  him,  you  know — and  I 
think  it  ought  to  set  your  mind  at  rest — that  I  think 
Althea  will  be  quite  as  lucky  as  he  will  be,  and  that  I 
think  that  he  is  worthy  of  her." 

Franklin  kept  his  eyes  on  her  as  she  spoke,  and  though 
she  did  not  meet  them,  her  far  gaze,  fixed  ahead,  seemed, 
in  its  impersonal  gravity  to  commune  with  him,  for  his 
consolation,  more  than  an  answering  glance  would  have 
done.  She  was  giving  him  her  word  for  something,  and 
the  very  fact  that  she  kept  it  impersonal,  held  it  there 
before  them  both,  made  it  more  weighty  and  more  final. 
Franklin  evidently  found  it  so.  He  presently  heaved  a 
sigh  in  which  relief  was  mingled  with  acceptance — ac- 


170  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ceptance  of  the  fact  that,  from  her,  he  must  expect  no 
further  relief.  And  presently,  as  they  came  out  upon 
the  winding  road,  he  said :  ' '  Thanks,  that  's  very  help 
ful." 

They  walked  on  then  in  silence.  The  sun  was  gone 
and  the  wind  blew  softly;  the  freshness  of  the  coming 
rain  was  in  the  air.  Helen  lifted  her  face  to  them  as 
the  first  slow  drops  began  to  fall.  In  her  heart,  too, 
the  fierceness  of  her  pain  was  overcast.  Something  in 
finitely  sad,  yet  infinitely  peaceful,  stilled  her  pulses. 
Infinitely  sad,  yet  infinitely  funny  too.  How  small,  how 
insignificant,  this  tangle  of  the  whole-hearted  and  the 
half-hearted;  what  did  it  all  come  to,  and  how  feel  suf 
fering  as  tragic  when  farce  grimaced  so  close  beside 
it  ?  Who  could  take  it  seriously  when,  in'  life,  the  whole 
hearted  were  so  deceived  and  based  their  loves  on  such 
illusion?  To  feel  the  irony  was  to  acquiesce,  perhaps, 
and  acquiescence,  even  if  only  momentary,  like  the  lull 
and  softness  in  nature,  was  better  than  the  beating 
fierceness  of  rebellion.  Everything  was  over.  And  here 
beside  her  went  the  dear  ungainly  dog.  She  turned  her 
head  and  smiled  at  him,  the  rain-drops  on  her  lashes. 

"You  don't  mind  the  rain,  Miss  Buchanan?"  said 
Franklin,  who  had  looked  anxiously  at  the  weather,  and 
probably  felt  himself  responsible  for  not  producing  an 
umbrella  for  a  lady's  need. 

"I  like  it."     She  continued  to  smile  at  him. 

"Miss  Buchanan,"  said  Franklin,  looking  at  her 
earnestly  and  not  smiling  back,  "I  want  to  say  some 
thing.  I  've  seemed  egotistic  and  I  Ve  been  egotistic. 
I  've  talked  only  about  my  own  troubles ;  but  I  don 't  be 
lieve  you  wanted  to  talk  about  yours,  did  you  ? ' '  Helen, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  171 

smiling,  slightly  shook  her  head.  "And  at  the  same 
time  you  've  not  minded  my  knowing  that  you  have 
troubles  to  bear."  Again  she  shook  her  head.  ""Well, 
that  's  what  I  thought ;  that  's  all  right,  then.  What 
I  wanted  to  say  was  that  if  ever  I  can  help  you  in  any 
way — if  ever  I  can  be  of  any  use — will  you  please  re 
member  that  I  'm  your  friend." 

Helen,  still  looking  at  him,  said  nothing  for  some 
moments.  And  now,  once  more,  a  slight  colour  rose  in 
her  cheeks.  "I  can't  imagine  why  you  should  be  my 
friend,"  she  said.  "I  feel  that  I  know  a  great  deal 
about  you;  but  you  know  nothing  about  me,  and  please 
believe  me  when  I  say  that  there  's  very  little  to  know. ' ' 

Already  he  knew  her  well  enough  to  know  that  the 
slight  colour,  lingering  on  her  cheek,  meant  that  she  was 
moved.  "Ah,  I  can't  believe  you  there,"  he  said. 
"And  at  all  events,  whatever  there  is  to  know,  I  'm  its 
friend.  You  don't  know  yourself,  you  see.  You  only 
know  what  you  feel,  not  at  all  what  you  are. ' ' 

"Isn't  that  what  I  am?"  She  looked  away,  dis 
quieted  by  this  analysis  of  her  own  personality. 

"By  no  means  all,"  said  Franklin.  "You  Ve  hardly 
looked  at  the  you  that  can  do  things — the  you  that  can 
think  things. ' ' 

She  didn't  want  to  look  at  them,  poor,  inert,  impris 
oned  creatures.  She  looked,  instead,  at  the  quaint,  un 
expected,  and  touching  thing  with  which  she  was  pre 
sented — Mr.  Kane's  friendship.  She  would  have  liked 
to  have  told  him  that  she  \vas  grateful  and  that  she,  too, 
was  his  friend ;  but  such  verbal  definitions  as  these  were 
difficult  and  alien  to  her,  as  alien  as  discussion  of  her 
own  character  and  its  capacities.  It  seemed  to  be  claim- 


172  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ing  too  much  to  claim  a  capacity  for  friendship.  She 
didn't  know  whether  she  was  anybody's  friend,  really 
— as  Mr.  Kane  would  have  counted  friendship.  She 
thought  him  dear,  she  thought  him  good,  and  yet  she 
hardly  wanted  him,  would  hardly  miss  him  if  he  were 
not  there.  He  touched  her,  more  deeply  than  she  per 
haps  quite  knew,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  have  nothing  for 
him.  So  she  gave  up  any  explicit  declaration,  only 
turning  her  eyes  on  him  and  smiling  at  him  again 
through  her  rain-dimmed  lashes,  as  they  went  down  the 
winding  road  together. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JT  was  Althea  who,  during  the  next  few  days,  while 
Gerald  with  the  greatest  tact  and  composure  made 
his  approaches,  was  most  unconscious  of  what  was  ap 
proaching  her.  Everybody  else  now  saw  quite  clearly 
what  Gerald's  intentions  were.  Althea  was  dazed;  she 
did  not  know  what  the  bright  object  that  had  come  so 
overpoweringly  into  her  life  wanted  of  her.  She  had 
feared — sickeningly — with  a  stiffening  of  her  whole 
nature  to  resistance,  that  he  wanted  to  flirt  with  her  as 
well  as  with  Lady  Pickering.  Then  she  had  seen  that 
he  wasn't  going  to  flirt,  that  he  was  going  to  be  her 
friend,  and  then — this  in  the  two  or  three  days  that 
followed  Gerald's  talk  with  Helen — that  he  was  going 
to  be  a  dear  one.  She  had  only  adjusted  her  mind  to 
this  grave  joy  and  wondered,  with  all  the  perplexity 
of  her  own  now  recognised  love,  whether  it  could  prove 
more  than  a  very  tremulous  joy,  when  the  final  revela 
tion  came  upon  her.  It  came,  and  it  was  still  unex 
pected,  one  afternoon  when  she  and  Gerald  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  together.  It  was  very  warm,  and  they 
had  come  into  the  cooler  house  after  tea  to  look  at  a 
book  that  Gerald  wanted  to  show  her.  It  had  proved 
to  be  not  much  of  a  book  after  all,  and  even  while 
standing  with  him  in  the  library,  while  he  turned  the 
musty  leaves  for  her  and  pointed  out  the  funny  old 
illustrations  he  had  been  telling  her  of,  Althea  had  felt 
that  the  book  was  only  a  pretext  for  getting  her  away 

173 


174  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

to  himself.  He  had  led  her  back  to  the  drawing-room 
and  he  had  said,  "Don't  let  's  go  out  again,  it  's  much 
nicer  here.  Please  sit  here  and  talk  to  me." 

It  was  just  the  hour,  just  such  an  afternoon  as  that 
on  which  poor  Franklin  had  arrived;  Althea  thought 
of  that  as  she  and  Gerald  sat  down  on  the  same  little 
sofa  where  she  and  Franklin  had  sat.  And,  in  a  swift 
flash  of  association,  she  remembered  that  Franklin  had 
wanted  to  kiss  her,  and  had  kissed  her.  They  had  left 
Franklin  under  the  limes  with  Helen ;  he  had  been  read 
ing  something  to  Helen  out  of  a  pamphlet,  and  Helen 
had  looked,  though  rather  sleepy,  kindly  acquiescent; 
but  the  memory  of  the  past  could  do  no  more  than  stir 
a  faint  pity  for  the  present  Franklin;  she  was  wishing 
— and  it  seemed  the  most  irresistible  longing  of  all  her 
life — that  Gerald  Digby  wanted  to  kiss  her  too.  The 
memory  and  the  wish  threw  her  thoughts  into  confu 
sion,  but  she  wras  still  able  to  maintain  her  calm,  to 
smile  at  him  and  say,  "Certainly,  let  us  talk." 

"But  not  about  politics  and  philanthropy  to-day," 
said  Gerald,  who  leaned  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  looked 
quietly  yet  intently  at  her;  "I  want  to  talk  about  our 
selves,  if  I  may. ' ' 

"Do  let  us  talk  about  ourselves,"  said  Althea. 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  that  what  I  'm  going  to  say 
will  surprise  you.  I  'm  sure  you  Ve  seen  how  much 
I  've  come  to  care  about  you,"  said  Gerald. 

Althea  kept  her  eyes  fixed  calmly  upon  him ;  her  self- 
command  was  great,  even  in  the  midst  of  an  overpower 
ing  hope. 

"I  know  that  we  are  real  friends,"  she  returned, 
smiling. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  175 

Her  calm,  her  cool,  sweet  smile,  like  the  light  in  the 
shaded  room,  were  very  pleasing  to  Gerald.  "Ah,  yes, 
but  that  was  only  a  step  you  see,"  he  smiled  back.  He 
did  not  let  her  guess  his  full  confidence,  he  took  all  the 
steps  one  after  the  other  in  their  proper  order.  He 
couldn't  give  her  romance,  but  he  could  give  her  every 
grace,  and  her  calm  made  him  feel,  happily  and  securely, 
that  grace  would  quite  content  her. 

"You  must  see,"  he  went  on,  still  with  his  eyes  on 
hers,  "that  it  's  more  than  that.  You  must  see  that 
you  are  dearer  than  that."  And  then  he  brought  out 
his  simple  question,  "Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

Althea  sat  still  and  her  mind  whirled.  Until  then 
she  had  been  unprepared.  Her  own  feeling,  the  feel 
ing  that  she  had  refused  for  days  to  look  at,  had  been  so 
strong  that  she  had  only  known  its  strength  and  its 
danger  to  her  pride;  she  had  had  no  time  to  wonder 
about  Gerald's  feeling.  And  now,  in  its  freedom,  her 
feeling  was  so  joyous  that  she  could  know  only  its  joy. 
She  was  dear  to  him.  He  asked  her  to  marry  him.  It 
seemed  enough,  more  than  enough,  to  make  joy  a  per 
manent  thing  in  her  life.  She  had  not  imagined  it 
possible  to  marry  a  man  who  did  not  woo  and  urge,  who 
did  not  make  her  feel  the  ardour  of  his  love.  But,  now, 
breathlessly,  she  found  that  reality  was  quite  different 
from  her  imagination  and  yet  so  blissful  that  she  could 
feel  nothing  wanting  in  it.  And  she  could  say  nothing. 
She  looked  at  him  with  her  large  eyes,  gravely,  and 
touched,  a  little  abashed  by  their  gaze,  he  took  her  hand, 
kissed  it,  and  murmured,  "Please  say  you  '11  have 
me." 

"Do  you  love   me?"   Althea  breathed   out;   it   was 


176  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

not  that  she  questioned  or  hesitated,  the  words  came  to 
her  lips  in  answer  to  the  situation  rather  than  in  ques 
tioning  of  him.  And  it  was  hardly  a  shock;  it  was,  in 
a  subtle  way,  a  further  realisation  of  exquisiteness, 
when  the  situation,  in  his  reply,  defined  itself  as  a 
reality  still  further  removed  from  her  imagination  of 
what  such  a  situation  should  be. 

Holding  her  hand,  his  gay  brown  eyes  upon  her,  he 
said,  after  only  the  very  slightest  pause,  "Miss  Jakes, 
I  'm  not  a  romantic  person,  you  see  that;  you  see  the 
sort  of  person  I  am.  I  can't  make  pretty  speeches, 
not  when  I  'm  serious,  as  I  am  now.  When  I  make 
pretty  speeches,  I  'm  only  flirting.  I  like  you.  I 
respect  you.  I've  watched  you  here  in  my  old  home 
and  I  've  thought,  'If  only  she  would  make  it  home 
again.'  I  've  thought  that  you  'd  help  me  to  make  a 
new  life.  I  want  to  come  and  live  here,  with  you,  and 
do  the  things  I  told  you  about — the  things  that  needed 
money. ' ' 

His  eyes  were  on  hers,  so  quietly  and  so  gravely,  now, 
that  they  seemed  to  hold  from  her  all  ugly  little  inter 
pretations;  he  trusted  her  with  the  true  one,  he  trusted 
her  not  to  see  it  as  ugly.  "You  see,  I  'm  not  romantic," 
he  went  on,  "and  I  can  only  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
couldn  't  have  thought  of  marrying  you  if  you  hadn  't  had 
money,  but  I  needn  't  tell  you  that,  if  you  'd  had  millions, 
I  wouldn't  have  thought  of  marrying  you  unless  I 
cared  for  you.  So  there  it  is,  quite  clear  and  simple. 
I  think  I  can  make  you  happy;  will  you  make  me 
happy?" 

It  was  exquisite,  the  trust,  the  truth,  the  quiet  gravity, 
and  yet  there  was  pain  in  the  exquisiteness.  She  could 


•  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  177 

not  look  at  it  yet  distinctly  for  it  seemed  part  of  the 
beauty.  It  was  rarer,  more  dignified,  this  wooing,  than 
common-place  protestations  of  devotion.  It  was  a  large 
and  beautiful  life  he  opened  to  her  and  he  needed  her 
to  make  it  real.  They  needed  each  other.  Yet — here 
the  pain  hovered — they  needed  each  other  so  differently. 
To  her,  he  was  the  large  and  beautiful  life ;  to  him,  she 
was  only  a  part  of  it,  and  a  means  to  it.  But  she 
could  not  look  at  pain.  Pride  was  mounting  in  her, 
pride  in  him,  her  beloved  and  her  possession.  Before 
all  the  world,  henceforth,  he  would  be  hers.  And  the 
greatness  of  that  pride  cast  out  lesser  ones.  He  had 
discriminated,  been  carefully  sincere,  her  sincerity  did 
not  need  to  be  careful,  it  was  an  unqualified  gift  she  had 
to  make  him.  "I  love  you,"  she  said.  "I  will  make  it 
your  home. ' ' 

And  again  Gerald  was  touched  and  a  little  confused. 
He  kissed  her  hand  and  then,  her  eyes  of  mute  avowal 
drawing  him,  he  leaned  to  her  and  kissed  her  cheek. 
He  felt  it  difficult  to  answer  such  a  speech,  and  all  that 
he  found  to  say  at  last  was,  "You  will  make  me  romantic, 
dear  Althea. ' ' 

That  evening  he  sought  Helen  out  again ;  but  he  need 
not  have  come  with  his  news,  for  it  was  none.  Althea 's 
blissful  preoccupation  and  his  gaiety  had  all  the  evening 
proclaimed  the  happy  event.  But  he  had  to  talk  to 
Helen,  and  finding  her  on  the  terrace,  he  drew  her 
hand  through  his  arm  and  paced  to  and  fro  with  her. 
She  was  silent,  and,  suddenly  and  oddly,  he  found  it 
difficult  to  say  anything.  "Well,"  he  ventured  at 
last. 

"Well,"  Helen  echoed  in  the  darkness. 


178  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"It  's  all  settled,"  said  Gerald. 

"Yes,"  said  Helen. 

"And  I  'm  very  happy." 

' '  I  am  so  glad. ' ' 

' '  And  she  is  really  a  great  dear.  Anything  more  gen 
erously  sweet  I  've  never  encountered. ' ' 

"I  'm  so  glad,"  Helen  repeated. 

There  seemed  little  more  to  say,  but,  before  they  went 
in,  he  squeezed  her  hand  and  added :  "If  it  hadn't  been 
for  you,  I  'd  never  have  met  her.  Dear  Helen,  I  have 
to  thank  you  for  my  good  fortune.  I  've  always  had  to 
thank  you  for  the  nice  things  that  have  happened  to 
me." 

But  to  this  Helen  demurred,  though  smiling  appar 
ently,  as  she  answered,  going  in,  "Oh  no,  I  don't  think 
you  have  this  to  thank  me  for." 

After  they  had  gone  upstairs,  Althea  came  to  Helen's 
room,  and  putting  her  arms  around  her  she  hid  her  face 
on  her  shoulder.  She  was  too  happy  to  feel  any  sense 
of  shyness.  It  was  Helen  who  was  shy.  So  shy  that 
the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes  as  she  stood  there,  embraced. 
And,  strangely,  she  felt,  with  all  her  disquiet  at  being 
so  held  by  Althea,  that  the  tears  were  not  only  for 
shyness,  but  for  her  friend.  Althea 's  happiness  touched 
her.  It  seemed  greater  than  her  situation  warranted. 
Helen  could  not  see  the  situation  as  rapturous.  It  was 
not  such  a  tempered,  such  a  reasonable  joy  that  she  could 
have  accepted,  had  it  been  her  part  to  accept  or  to 
decline.  And,  held  by  Althea,  hot,  shrinking,  sorry,  she 
was  aware  of  another  anger  against  Gerald. 

"My  dear  Althea,  I  know.  I  do  so  heartily  congratu 
late  you  and  Gerald,"  she  said. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  179 

"He  told  you,  dear  Helen?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me,  but  of  course  I  saw." 

"I  feel  now  as  if  you  were  my  sister,"  said  Althea, 
tightening  her  arms.  "We  will  always  be  very  near 
each  other,  Helen.  It  is  so  beautiful  to  think  you 
brought  us  together,  isn  't  it. ' ' 

Helen  was  forced  to  put  the  distasteful  cup  to  her  lips. 
"Yes  indeed,"  she  said. 

"He  is  so  dear,  so  wonderful,"  said  Althea.  "There 
is  so  much  more  in  him  than  he  knows  himself.  I  want 
him  to  be  a  great  man,  Helen.  I  believe  he  can  be,  don 't 
you?" 

"I  Ve  never  thought  of  Gerald  as  great,"  Helen  re 
plied,  trying  to  smile. 

"Ah,  well,  wait;  you  will  see!  I  suppose  it  is  only 
a  woman  in  love  with  a  man  who  sees  all  his  capacities. 
We  will  live  here,  and  in  London,"  Althea,  while  she 
spoke  her  guileless  assurance,  raised  her  head  and  threw 
back  her  unbound  hair,  looking  her  full  trust  into 
Helen's  eyes.  "I  wouldn't  care  to  live  for  more  than 
half  the  year  in  the  country,  and  it  wouldn't  be  good 
for  Gerald.  I  want  to  do  so  much,  Helen,  to  make  so 
many  people  happy,  if  I  can.  And,  Helen  dear,"  she 
smiled  now  through  her  tears,  "if  only  you  could 
be  one  of  them;  if  only  this  could  mean  in  some  way 
a  new  opening  in  your  life,  too.  One  can  never  tell; 
happiness  is  such  an  infectious  thing ;  if  you  are  a  great 
deal  with  two  very  happy  people,  you  may  catch  the 
habit.  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  you  aren't  happy, 
rare  and  lovely  person  that  you  are.  I  told  Gerald  so 
to-day.  I  said  to  him  that  I  felt  life  hadn't  given  you 
any  of  the  joy  we  all  so  need.  Helen,  dear,  you  must 


180  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

find  your  fairy-prince.  You  must,  you  shall  fall  in 
love,  too." 

Helen  controlled  her  face  and  gulped  on.  "That  's 
not  so  easily  managed,"  she  remarked.  "I  've  seen  a 
good  many  fairy-princes  in  my  life,  and  either  I  haven't 
melted  their  hearts,  or  they  haven't  melted  mine.  We 
can't  all  draw  lucky  numbers,  you  know;  there  are  not 
enough  to  go  round. ' ' 

"As  if  anybody  wouldn't  fall  in  love  with  you,  if 
you  gave  them  the  chance,"  said  Althea.  "You  are  the 
lucky  number. ' ' 

Althea  felt  next  day  a  certain  tameness  in  the  public 
reception  of  her  news.  She  had  not  intended  the  news 
to  be  public  yet  for  some  time.  Franklin's  presence 
seemed  to  make  an  announcement  something  of  an  in 
delicacy,  but,  whether  through  her  responsibility  or 
whether  through  Gerald's,  or  whether  through  the 
obviousness  of  the  situation,  she  found  that  everybody 
knew.  It  could  not  make  commonplace  to  her  her  own 
inner  joy,  but  she  saw  that  to  Aunt  Julia,  to  the  girls, 
to  Lady  Pickering,  and  Sir  Charles,  her  position  was 
commonplace.  She  was,  to  them,  a  nice  American  who 
was  being  married  as  much  because  she  had  money  as 
because  she  was  nice. 

Aunt  Julia  voiced  this  aspect  to  her  on  the  first  op 
portunity,  drawing  her  away  after  breakfast  to  walk 
with  her  along  the  terrace  while  she  said,  very  gravely, 
"Althea,  dear,  do  you  really  think  you  '11  be  happy 
living  in  England  ? ' ' 

"Happier  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world,"  said 
Althea. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  181 

"I  didn't  realise  that  you  felt  so  completely  ex 
patriated." 

"England  has  always  seemed  very  homelike  to  me, 
and  this  already  is  more  of  a  home  to  me  than  any  I 
have  known  for  years,"  said  Althea,  looking  up  at  Mer- 
riston  House. 

"Poor  child!"  said  Aunt  Julia,  "what  a  comment  on 
your  rootless  life.  You  must  forgive  me,  Althea,"  she 
went  on  in  a  lower  voice, ' '  but  I  feel  myself  in  a  mother 's 
place  to  you,  and  I  do  very  much  want  to  ask  you  to 
consider  more  carefully  before  you  make  things  final. 
Mr.  Digby  is  a  charming  man ;  but  how  little  you  have 
seen  of  him.  I  beg  you  to  wait  for  a  year  before  you 
marry. ' ' 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can't  gratify  you,  Aunt  Julia.  I  cer 
tainly  can 't  ask  Gerald  to  wait  for  a  year. ' ' 

' '  My  dear,  why  not ! ' '     Aunt  Julia  did  not  repress. 

Althea  went  on  calmly.  "It  is  true,  of  course,  that 
we  are  not  in  love  like  two  children,  with  no  thought 
of  responsibility  or  larger  claims.  You  see,  one  out 
grows  that  rather  naive  American  idea  about  marriage. 
Mine  is,  if  you  like,  a  mariage  de  convenance,  in  the 
sense  that  Gerald  is  a  poor  man  and  cannot  marry  unless 
he  marries  money.  And  I  am  proud  to  have  the  power 
to  help  him  build  up  a  large  and  dignified  life,  and  we 
don't  intend  to  postpone  our  marriage  when  we  know, 
trust,  and  love  each  other  as  we  do." 

"A  large  life,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Julia.  "Don't 
deceive  yourself  into  thinking  that.  One  needs  a  far 
larger  fortune  than  your  tiny  one,  nowadays,  if  one  is 
to  build  up  a  large  life.  What  I  fear  more  than  any- 


182  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

thing  is  that  you  don't  in  the  least  realise  what  English 
country  life  is  all  the  year  round.  Imagine,  if  you  can, 
your  winters  here. ' ' 

"I  shan't  spend  many  winters  here,"  said  Althea 
smiling.  She  did  not  divulge  her  vague,  bright  plans 
to  Aunt  Julia,  but  they  filled  the  future  for  her;  she 
saw  the  London  drawing-room,  where,  when  Gerald  was 
in  Parliament,  she  would  gather  delightful  people  to 
gether.  Among  such  people,  Lady  Blair,  Miss  Buckston, 
her  friends  in  Devonshire,  and  of  Grimshaw  Rectory, 
seemed  hardly  more  than  onlookers;  they  did  not  fit 
into  the  pictures  of  her  new  life. 

And  if  they  did  not  fit,  what  of  Franklin?  Even  in 
old  unsophisticated  pictures  of  a  salon  he  had  been  a 
figure  adjusted  with  some  difficulty.  It  had,  in  days 
that  seemed  immeasurably  remote — days  when  she  had 
wondered  whether  she  could  marry  Franklin — it  had 
been  difficult  to  see  herself  introducing  him  with  any 
sense  of  achievement  to  Lady  Blair  or  to  the  Collings, 
and  she  knew  now,  clearly,  why:  in  Lady  Blair's  draw 
ing-room,  as  in  Devonshire  and  at  Grimshaw  Rectory, 
Franklin  would  have  looked  a  funny  little  man.  How 
much  more  funny  in  the  new  setting.  What  would  he 
do  in  it?  What  was  it  to  mean  to  him?  What  would 
any  setting  mean  to  Franklin  in  which  he  was  to  see 
her  as  no  longer  needing  him?  For,  and  this  was  the 
worst  of  it,  and  in  spite  of  happiness  Althea  felt  it  as 
a  pang  indeed,  she  no  longer  needed  Franklin ;  and 
knowing  this  she  longed  at  once  to  avoid  and  to  atone 
to  him. 

She  found  him  after  her  walk  with  Aunt  Julia  sitting 
behind  a  newspaper  in  the  library.  Franklin  always 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  183 

read  the  newspapers  every  morning,  and  it  struck 
Althea  as  particularly  touching  that  this  good  habit 
should  be  persevered  in  under  his  present  circumstances. 
She  was  so  much  touched  by  Franklin,  the  habit  of  old 
intimacy  was  so  strong,  that  her  own  essential  change  of 
heart  seemed  effaced  by  the  uprising  of  feeling  for  him. 
"Oh,  Franklin!"  she  said.  He  had  risen  as  she  en 
tered,  and  he  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  smile.  It 
seemed  to  receive  her,  to  forgive,  to  understand.  Al 
most  weeping,  she  went  to  him  with  outstretched  hands, 
faltering,  "I  am  so  happy,  and  I  am  so  sorry,  dear 
Franklin.  Oh,  forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  your  life. ' ' 

He  looked  at  her,  no  longer  smiling,  very  gravely, 
holding  her  hands,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  not  think 
ing  of  his  life,  but  of  hers.  And,  with  a  further  pang, 
she  remembered  that  the  last  time  they  had  stood  so — 
she  and  Franklin — she  had  given  him  more  hope  for 
his  life  than  ever  before  in  all  their  histories.  He  must 
remember,  too,  and  he  must  feel  her  unworthy  in  re 
membering,  and  even  though  she  did  not  need  Franklin, 
she  could  not  bear  him  to  think  her  unworthy.  "For 
give  me,"  she  repeated.  And  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 
"I  've  been  so  tossed,  so  unstable.  I  haven't  known. 
I  only  know  now,  you  see,  dear  Franklin.  I  Ve  really 
fallen  in  love  at  last.  Can  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

"For  not  having  fallen  in  love  writh  me?"  he  asked 
gently. 

"No,  dear,"  she  answered,  forced  into  complete  sin 
cerity.  What  was  it  in  Franklin  that  compelled  sin 
cerity  and  made  it  so  easy  to  be  sincere?  There,  at 
least,  was  a  quality  for  which  one  would  always  need 
him.  "No,  not  for  that,  but  having  thought  that  I 


184  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

might,  perhaps,  fall  in  love  with  you.  It  is  the  hope  I 
gave  you  that  must  make  this  seem  so  sudden  and  so 
cruel." 

He  had  not  felt  her  cruel,  but  he  had  felt  something 
that  was  now  giving  his  eyes  their  melancholy  direct 
ness  of  gaze.  He  was  looking  at  his  Althea;  he  was  not 
judging  her ;  but  he  was  wishing  that  she  had  been  able 
to  think  of  him  a  little  more  as  mere  friend,  a  little 
more  as  the  man  who,  after  all,  had  loved  her  all  these 
years;  wishing  that  she  had  not  so  completely  forgotten 
him,  so  completely  relegated  and  put  him  away  when 
her  new  life  was  coming  to  her.  But  he  understood,  he 
did  not  judge,  and  he  answered,  "I  don't  think  you  've 
been  cruel,  Althea  dear,  though  it  's  been  rather  cruel 
of  fortune,  if  you  like,  to  arrange  it  in  just  this  way. 
As  for  hurting  my  life,  you  've  been  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  it. ' ' 

Something  in  his  voice,  final  acceptance,  final  resig 
nation,  as  though,  seeing  her  go  for  ever,  he  bowed  his 
head  in  silence,  filled  her  with  intolerable  sadness.  Was 
it  that  she  wanted  still  to  need  him,  or  was  it  that  she 
could  not  bear  the  thought  that  he  might,  some  day,  no 
longer  need  her  ? 

The  sense  of  an  end  of  things,  chill  and  penetrating 
like  an  autumnal  wind,  made  all  life  seem  bleak  and 
grey  for  the  moment.  "But,  Franklin,  you  will  always 
be  my  friend.  That  is  not  changed,"  she  said.  "Please 
tell  me  that  nothing  of  that  side  of  things  is  changed, 
dear  Franklin?" 

And  now  that  sincerity  in  him,  that  truth-seeing  and 
truth-speaking  quality  that  was  his  power,  became  sud 
denly  direful.  For  though  he  looked  at  her  ever  so 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  185 

gently  and  ever  so  tenderly,  his  eyes  pierced  her.  And, 
helplessly,  he  placed  the  truth  before  them  both,  say 
ing:  "I  '11  always  be  your  friend,  of  course,  dear 
Althea.  You  '11  always  be  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  've 
had  in  my  life;  but  what  can  I  be  in  yours?  I  don't 
belong  over  here,  you  know.  I  '11  not  be  in  your  life 
any  longer.  How  can  it  not  be  changed?  How  will 
you  stay  my  friend,  dear  Althea  ? ' ' 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  That  he  should 
see,  and  accept,  and  still  love  her,  made  him  seem  dearer 
than  ever  before,  wrhile,  in  her  heart,  she  knew  that  he 
spoke  the  truth.  "Don't — don't,  dear  Franklin,"  she 
pleaded.  "You  will  be  often  with  us.  Don't  talk  as 
if  it  were  at  an  end.  How  could  our  friendship  have  an 
end  ?  Don 't  let  me  think  that  you  are  leaving  me. ' ' 

He  smiled  a  little,  but  it  was  a  valorous  smile.  "I  '11 
never  leave  you  in  that  way." 

"Don't  speak,  then,  as  if  I  were  leaving  you." 

But  Franklin,  though  he  smiled  the  valorous  smile, 
couldn't  give  her  a  consolation  not  his  to  give.  Did 
he  see  clearly,  and  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had  al 
ways  counted  for  her  as  a  solace,  a  substitute  for  the 
things  he  couldn't  be,  and  that  now,  when  these 
things  had  come  to  her,  he  counted  really  for  nothing 
at  all?  If  he  did  see  it,  he  didn't  resent  it;  he  would 
understand  that,  too,  even  though  it  left  him  with  no 
foothold  in  her  life.  But  he  couldn't  pretend — to  give 
her  comfort — that  she  needed  him  any  longer.  ' '  I  want 
to  count  for  anything  you  '11  let  me  count  for,"  he 
said;  "but — it  isn't  your  fault,  dear — I  don't  think  I 
will  ever  count  for  much,  now;  I  don't  see  how  I  can. 
If  that  's  being  left,  I  guess  I  am  left." 


186  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

She  gazed  at  him,  and  all  that  she  had  to  offer  was 
her  longing  that  the  truth  were  not  the  truth,  and  for 
the  moment  of  silent  confrontation  her  pain  was  so 
great  that  its  pressure  brought  an  involuntary  cry — 
protest  or  presage — it  felt  like  both.  "You  will — you 
will  count — for  much  more,  dear  Franklin." 

She  didn't  know  that  it  was  the  truth;  his  seemed 
to  be  the  final  truth ;  but  it  came,  and  it  had  to  be  said, 
and  he  could  accept  it  as  her  confession  and  her  atone 
ment. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FRANKLIN  was  gone  and  Sir  Charles  was  gone,  and 
Lady  Pickering  soon  followed,  not  in  the  least  dis 
comfited  by  the  unexpected  turn  of  events.  Lady  Pick 
ering  could  hardly  have  borne  to  suspect  that  Gerald 
preferred  to  flirt  with  Miss  Jakes  rather  than  with  her 
self  ;  that  he  preferred  to  marry  her  was  nothing  of  an 
affront.  Althea  herself  was  very  soon  to  return  to 
America  for  a  month  with  Aunt  Julia  and  the  girls, 
settle  business  matters  and  see  old  friends  before  turn 
ing  her  face,  this  time  for  good,  to  the  country  that  was 
now  to  be  her  home. 

Franklin  was  gone,  and  Gerald  and  Helen  were  left, 
and  all  that  Gerald  more  and  more  meant,  all  that  was 
bright  and  alien  too — the  things  of  joy  and  the  things 
of  adjustment  and  of  wonder — effaced  poor  Franklin 
while  it  emphasised  those  painful  truths  that  he  had 
seen  and  shown  her  and  that  she  had  only  been  able  to 
protest  against.  The  thought  of  Franklin  came  hardly 
at  all,  though  the  truths  he  had  put  before  her  lingered 
in  a  haunting  sense  of  disappointment  with  herself;  she 
had  failed  Franklin  in  deeper,  more  subtle  ways  than  in 
the  mere  shattering  of  his  hopes. 

Althea  had  never  been  a  good  business  woman;  her 
affairs  were  taken  care  of  for  her  in  Boston  by  wise  and 
careful  cousins;  but  she  found  that  Gerald,  in  spite  of 
his  air  of  irresponsibility,  was  a  very  good  business 

187 


188  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

man,  and  it  was  he  who  pointed  out  to  her,  with  cheerful 
and  affectionate  frankness,  that  her  fortune  was  not  as 
large  as  she,  with  her  heretofore  unexacting  demands 
on  it,  had  imagined.  It  was  only  when  Althea  took  for 
granted  that  it  could  suffice  for  much  larger,  new  de 
mands,  that  Gerald  pointed  out  the  facts  of  limitation ; 
to  himself,  he  made  this  clear  and  sweet,  facts  were 
amply  sufficient;  there  was  more  than  enough  for  his 
sober  wants.  But  Althea,  sitting  over  the  papers  with 
him  in  the  library,  and  looking  rather  vague  and  wist 
ful,  realised  that  if  Gerald's  wants  were  to  be  the  chief 
consideration  many  of  her  own  must,  indeed,  go  unsatis 
fied.  Gerald  evidently  took  it  perfectly  for  granted 
that  her  wants  would  be  his.  Looking  up  at  the  flat 
and  faded  portraits  of  bygone  Digbys,  while  this  last  one, 
his  charming  eyes  lifted  so  brightly  and  so  intelligently 
upon  her,  made  things  clear,  looking  up,  over  his  head, 
at  these  ancestors  of  her  affianced,  Althea  saw  in  their 
aspect  of  happy  composure  that  they,  too,  had  always 
taken  it  for  granted  that  their  wives'  wants  were  just 
that — just  their  own  wants.  She  couldn't — not  at  first 
— lucidly  articulate  to  herself  any  marked  divergence 
between  her  wants  and  Gerald 's ;  she,  too,  wanted  to  see 
Merriston  House  restored  and  made  again  into  a  home 
for  Digbys;  but  Merriston  House  had  been  seen  by  her 
as  a  means,  not  as  an  end.  She  had  seen  it  as  a  centre  to 
a  larger  life ;  he  saw  it  as  a  boundary  beyond  which  they 
could  not  care  to  stray.  After  the  golden  bliss  of  the 
first  days  of  her  new  life  there,  as  Gerald's  promised 
wife,  there  came  for  her  a  pause  of  rather  perplexed 
reaction  in  this  sense  of  limits,  this  sense  of  being  placed 
in  a  position  that  she  must  keep,  this  strange  sense  of 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  189 

slow  but  sure  metamorphosis  into  one  of  a  succession  of 
Mrs.  Digbys  whose  wants  were  their  husbands'. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  quite  see,  dear,"  she  said  at  intervals, 
while  Gerald  explained  to  her  what  it  cost  to  keep  up 
even  such  a  small  place.  "What  a  pity  that  those 
stocks  of  mine  you  were  telling  me  about  don't  yield 
more.  It  isn't  much  we  have,  is  it?" 

"I  think  it  's  a  great  deal,"  laughed  Gerald.  "It  's 
quite  enough  to  be  very  happy  on.  And,  first  and  fore 
most,  when  it  's  a  question  of  happiness,  and  since  you 
are  so  dear  and  generous,  I  shall  be  able  to  hunt  at  last 
and  keep  my  own  horses.  I  'm  sick  of  being  dependent 
on  my  friends  for  a  mount  now  and  then.  Not  that 
you  '11  have  much  sympathy  with  that  particular  form 
of  happiness,  I  know,"  he  added,  smiling,  as  he  put  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder  and  scanned  the  next  document. 

Althea  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  hardly  knew 
what  the  odd  shock  that  went  through  her  meant;  then 
she  recognised  that  it  was  fear.  To  see  it  as  that  gave 
her  courage;  at  all  events,  love  Gerald  as  she  did,  she 
would  not  be  a  coward  for  love  of  him.  The  effort  was 
in  her  voice,  making  it  tremulous,  as  she  said:  "But, 
Gerald,  you  know  I  don't  like  hunting;  you  know  I 
think  it  cruel." 

He  looked  at  her;  he  smiled.  "So  do  I,  you  nice 
dear." 

' '  But  you  won 't  pain  me  by  doing  it — you  will  give  it 
up?" 

It  was  now  his  turn  to  look  really  a  little  frightened. 
"But  it  's  in  my  blood  and  bones,  the  joy  of  it,  Althea. 
You  wouldn't,  seriously,  ask  me  to  give  it  up  for  a 
whim?" 


190  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Oh,  it  isn't  a  whim." 

"A  theory,  then." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  give  it  up  for  a  theory  like 
that  one.  Yes,  I  even  think  that  you  ought  to  give  it  up 
to  please  me. ' ' 

"But  why  shouldn't  you  give  up  your  theory  to 
please  me?"  He  had  turned  his  eyes  on  his  papers 
now,  and  was  feigning  to  scan  them. 

"It  is  a  question  of  right  and  wrong  to  me." 

Gerald  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  was  not  ir 
ritated,  she  saw  that;  not  angry.  He  quite  recognised 
her  point,  and  he  didn't  like  her  the  less  for  holding  to 
it;  but  he  recognised  his  own  point  just  as  clearly,  and, 
after  the  little  pause,  she  found  that  he  was  resolute  in 
holding  to  it. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can't  give  it  up — even  to  please  you, 
dear,"  he  said. 

Althea  sat  looking  down  at  the  papers  that  lay  on  the 
table;  she  saw  them  through  tears  of  helpless  pain. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  and  nothing  to  be  said. 
She  could  not  tell  him  that,  since  he  did  not  love  her 
sufficiently  to  give  up  a  pleasure  for  her  sake,  she  must 
give  him  up ;  nor  could  she  tell  him  that  he  must  not  use 
her  money  for  pleasures  that  she  considered  wrong. 
But  it  was  this  second  impossible  retort — the  first,  evi 
dently,  did  not  cross  his  mind — that  was  occupying 
Gerald.  He  was  not  slow  in  seeing  delicacies,  though 
he  was  slow  indeed  in  seeing  what  might  have  been 
solemnities.  The  position  couldn't  strike  him  as 
solemn;  he  couldn't  conceive  that  a  woman  might  break 
off  her  engagement  for  such  a  cause ;  but  he  did  see  his 
own  position  of  beneficiary  as  delicate. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  191 

His  next  words  showed  it:  "Of  course  I  won't  hunt 
here,  if  you  really  say  not.  I  could  go  away  to  hunt. 
The  difficulty  is  that  we  want  to  keep  horses,  don't  we? 
and  if  I  have  a  hunter  it  will  be  rather  funny  never  to 
use  him  at  home." 

Althea  saw  that  it  would  be  rather  funny.  "If  you 
have  a  hunter  I  would  far  rather  you  hunted  here  than 
that  you  went  away  to  hunt." 

"Perhaps  you  'd  rather  I  had  a  horse  that  couldn't 
hunt.  The  hunter  would  be  your  gift,  of  course.  I 
could  just  go  on  depending  on  my  friends  for  a  mount, 
though  that  would  look  funny,  too,  wouldn't  it?" 

"If  you  will  hunt,  I  want  to  give  you  your  hunter." 

"In  a  sense  it  will  be  using  your  money  to  do  some 
thing  you  disapprove  of."  Gerald  was  smiling  at  her 
as  though  he  felt  that  he  was  bringing  her  round  to 
reasonableness.  "Perhaps  that  's  ugly." 

"Please  don't  speak  of  the  money;  mine  is  yours." 

"That  makes  me  seem  all  the  dingier,  I  know,"  said 
Gerald,  half  ruefully,  yet  still  smiling  at  her.  "I  do 
wish  I  could  give  it  up,  just  to  please  you,  but  really  I 
can't.  You  must  just  shut  your  eyes  and  pretend  I  'm 
not  a  brute." 

After  this  little  encounter,  which  left  its  mark  on  Al 
thea 's  heart,  she  felt  that  Gerald  ought  to  be  the  more 
willing  to  yield  in  other  things  and  to  enter  into  her 
projects.  "Don't  you  think,  dear,"  she  said  to  him  a 
day  or  two  after,  when  they  were  walking  together, 
"don't  you  think  that  you  ought  soon  to  be  thinking  of 
a  seat  in  Parliament?  That  will  be  such  a  large, 
worthy  life  for  you." 

Gerald,  as  they  walked,  was  looking  from  right  to  left, 


192  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

happily,  possessively,  over  the  fields  and  woods.  He 
brought  his  attention  to  her  suggestion  with  a  little 
effort,  and  then  he  laughed.  "Good  gracious,  no! 
I  Ve  no  political  views." 

"But  oughtn't  you  to  have  them?" 

"You  shall  provide  me  with  them,  dear." 

"Gladly;  and  will  you  use  them?" 

"Not  in  Parliament,"  laughed  Gerald. 

"But  seriously,  dear,  I  hope  you  will  think  of  it." 

He  turned  gay,  protesting,  and  now  astonished  eyes 
upon  her.  "But  I  can't  think  of  it  seriously.  Old 
Battersby  is  a  member  for  these  parts,  and  his  seat  is 
as  firm  as  a  rock. ' ' 

' '  Can 't  you  find  another  seat  ? ' ' 

"But,  my  dear,  even  if  I  had  any  leaning  that  way, 
which  I  haven't,  where  am  I  to  find  the  time  and 
money  ? ' ' 

"Give  less  time  and  money  to  hunting,"  she  could 
not  repress. 

But,  over  the  sinking  of  her  heart,  she  kept  her  voice 
light,  and  Gerald,  all  unsuspecting,  answered,  as  if  it 
were  a  harmless  jest  they  were  bandying,  "What  a 
horrid  score !  But,  yes,  it  's  quite  true ;  I  want  my  time 
for  hunting  and  farming  and  studying  a  bit,  and  then 
you  mustn't  forget  that  I  enjoy  dabbling  at  my  paint 
ing  in  my  spare  moments  and  have  the  company  of  my 
wise  and  charming  Althea  to  cultivate.  I  've  quite 
enough  to  fill  my  time  with." 

She  was  baffled,  perplexed,  and  hurt.  Her  thoughts 
fixed  with  some  irony  on  his  painting.  Dabble  at  it  in 
deed.  Gerald  had  shown  her  some  of  his  sketches  and 
they  had  hardly  seemed  to  Althea  to  merit  more  than 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  193 

that  description.  Her  own  tastes  had  grown  up  se 
curely  framed  by  books  and  lectures.  Her  speciality 
was  early  Italian  art.  She  liked  pictures  of  Madonnas 
surrounded  by  exquisite  accessories — all  of  which  she 
accurately  remembered.  She  didn't  at  all  care  for  Jap 
anese  prints,  and  Gerald's  sketches  looked  to  her  rather 
like  Japanese  prints.  She  really  didn  't  imagine  that  he 
intended  her  to  take  them  seriously,  and  when  he  had 
brought  them  out  and  shown  them  to  her  she  had  said, 
"Pretty,  very  pretty,  indeed,  dear;  really  you  have 
talent,  I  'm  sure  of  it.  "With  hard  work,  under  a  good 
master,  you  might  have  become  quite  a  painter."  She 
had  then  seen  the  little  look  of  discomfiture  on  Gerald's 
face,  though  he  laughed  good-humouredly  as  he  put  away 
his  sketches,  saying  to  Helen,  who  was  present,  "I  'm 
put  in  my  place,  you  see." 

Althea  had  hastened  to  add,  "But,  dear,  really  I 
think  them  very  pretty.  They  show  quite  a  direct,  sim 
ple  feeling  for  colour.  Don't  they,  Helen?  Don't  you 
feel  with  me  that  they  are  very  pretty  ? ' ' 

Helen  had  said  that  she  knew  nothing  about  pictures, 
but  liked  Gerald's  very  much. 

It  was  hard  now  to  be  asked  to  accept  this  vagrant 
artistry  instead  of  the  large,  political  life  she  had  seen 
for  him.  And  what  of  the  London  drawing-room? 

"You  must  keep  in  touch  with  people,  Gerald,"  she 
said.  "You  mustn't  sink  into  the  country  squire  for 
ever. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  that  's  just  what  I  want  to  sink  into,"  said 
Gerald.     "Don't    bother    about    people,    though,    dear. 
We  can  have  plenty  of  people  to  stay  with  us,  and  go 
about  a  bit  ourselves." 
13 


194  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"But  we  must  be  in  London  for  part  of  the  year," 
said  Althea. 

' '  Oh,  you  will  run  up  now  and  then  for  a  week  when 
ever  you  like, ' '  said  Gerald. 

"A  week!  How  can  one  keep  in  touch  with  what  is 
going  on  in  a  week  ?  Can 't  we  take  a  little  house  there  1 
One  of  those  nice  little  old  houses  in  Westminster,  for 
example  ? ' ' 

"A  house,  my  dear!  Why,  you  don't  want  to  leave 
Merriston,  do  you?  What  would  become  of  Merriston 
if  we  had  a  house  in  London — and  of  all  our  plans? 
We  really  couldn't  manage  that,  dear — we  really 
couldn't  afford  it." 

Yes,  she  saw  the  life  very  distinctly,  now ;  that  of  the 
former  Mrs.  Digbys — that  of  cheerful  squiress  and  wise 
helpmate.  And,  charmed  though  she  was  with  her 
lover,  Althea  was  not  charmed  with  that  prospect.  She 
promised  herself  that  things  should  turn  out  rather 
differently.  What  was  uncomfortable  already  was  to 
find  that  her  promises  were  becoming  vague  and  tenta 
tive.  There  was  a  new  sense  of  bondage.  Bliss  was  in 
it,  but  the  bonds  began  to  chafe. 


PART  II 
CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON  a  chill  day  in  late  October  Franklin  Winslow 
Kane  walked  slowly  down  a  narrow  street  near 
Eaton  Square  examining  the  numbers  on  the  doors  as 
he  passed.  He  held  his  umbrella  open  over  his  shoulder, 
for  propitiation  rather  than  for  shelter,  since  the  white 
fog  had  not  yet  formed  into  a  drizzle.  His  trousers 
were  turned  up,  and  his  feet,  wisely,  for  the  streets  were 
wet  and  slimy,  encased  in  neat  galoshes.  After  a  little 
puzzling  at  the  end  of  the  street,  where  the  numbers 
became  confusing,  he  found  the  house  he  sought  on  the 
other  side — a  narrow  house,  painted  grey,  a  shining 
knocker  upon  its  bright  green  door,  and  rows  of  evenly 
clipped  box  in  each  window.  Franklin  picked  his  way 
over  the  road  and  rang  the  bell.  This  was  his  first  stay 
in  London  since  his  departure  from  Merriston  in 
August.  He  had  been  in  Oxford,  in  Cambridge,  in 
Birmingham,  and  Edinburgh.  He  had  made  friends 
and  found  many  interests.  The  sense  of  scientific  links 
between  his  own  country  and  England  had  much  en 
larged  his  consciousness  of  world-citizenship.  He  had 
ceased  altogether  to  feel  like  a  tourist,  he  had  almost 
ceased  to  feel  like  an  alien;  how  could  he  feel  so  when 
he  had  come  to  know  so  many  people  who  had  exactly 
his  own  interests?  This  wider  scope  of  understanding 

195 


196  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

sympathy  was  the  main  enlargement  that  had  come  to 
him,  at  least  it  was  the  main  enlargement  for  his  own 
consciousness.  Another  enlargement  there  was,  but  it 
seemed  purely  personal  and  occupied  his  thoughts  far 
less. 

He  waited  now  upon  the  doorstep  of  old  Miss  Bu 
chanan's  London  house,  and  he  had  come  there  to  call 
upon  young  Miss  Buchanan.  The  memory  of  Helen's 
unobtrusive,  wonderfully  understanding  kindness  to 
him  during  his  last  days  at  Merriston,  remained  for  him 
as  the  only  bright  spot  in  a  desolate  blankness.  He 
had  not  seen  her  again.  She  had  been  paying  visits, 
but  she  had  written  in  return  to  a  note  of  inquiry  from 
Cambridge,  to  say  that  she  was  settled,  now,  in  Lon 
don  for  a  long  time  and  that  she  would  be  delighted 
to  see  him  on  the  day  he  suggested — that  of  his  arrival 
in  town. 

He  was  ushered  by  the  most  staid,  most  crisp  of  par 
lour-maids,  not  into  Helen's  own  little  sanctum  down 
stairs,  but  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  narrow 
room,  running  to  the  back  of  the  house  where  a  long 
window  showed  a  ghostly  tree  in  the  fog  outside,  and 
it  was  very  much  crowded  with  over-large  furniture 
gathered  together  from  Miss  Buchanan's  past.  There 
were  chintz-covered  chairs  and  sofas  that  one  had  to 
make  one's  way  around,  and  there  were  cabinets  filled 
with  china,  and  there  were  tables  with  reviews  and 
book-cutters  laid  out  on  them.  And  it  was  the  most 
cheerful  of  rooms ;  three  canaries  sang  loudly  in  a. 
spacious  gilt  cage  that  stood  in  a  window,  the  tea-table 
was  laid  before  the  fire,  and  the  leaping  firelight 
played  on  the  massive  form  of  the  black  cat,  dozing  in 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  197 

his  basket,  on  the  gilt  of  the  canaries'  cage,  on  the 
china  in  the  cabinets,  the  polished  surface  of  the  chintz, 
and  the  copper  kettle  on  the  tea-table. 

Franklin  stood  and  looked  about  him,  highly  inter 
ested.  He  liked  to  think  that  Helen  had  such  a  com 
fortable  refuge  to  fall  back  upon,  though  by  the  time 
that  old  Miss  Buchanan  appeared  he  had  reflected  that 
so  much  comfort  might  be  just  the  impediment  that 
had  prevented  her  from  taking  to  her  wings  as  he  felt 
persuaded  she  could  and  should  do.  Old  Miss  Bu 
chanan  interested  him  even  more  than  her  room.  She 
was  a  firm,  ample  woman  of  over  sixty,  with  plentiful 
grey  hair  brushed  back  uncompromisingly  from  her 
brow,  tight  lips,  small,  attentive  eyes  with  projecting 
eyebrows  over  them,  and  an  expression  at  once  of  ret 
icence  and  cordiality.  She  wore  a  black  dress  of  an 
old-fashioned  cut,  and  round  her  neck  was  a  heavy 
gold  chain  and  a  large  gold  locket. 

Helen  would  be  in  directly,  she  said,  and  expected 
him. 

Franklin  saw  at  once  that  she  took  him  for  granted, 
and  that  she  was  probably  in  the  habit  of  taking  all 
Helen's  acquaintances  for  granted,  and  of  making  them 
comfortable  until  Helen  came  and  took  them  off  her 
hands.  She  had,  he  inferred,  many  interests  of  her 
own,  and  did  not  waste  much  conjecture  on  stray 
callers.  Franklin  was  quite  content  to  count  as  a  stray 
caller,  and  he  had  always  conjecture  enough  for  two 
in  any  encounter.  He  talked  away  in  his  even,  delib 
erate  tones,  while  they  drank  tea  and  ate  the  hottest 
of  muffins  that  stood  in  a  covered  dish  on  a  brass  tripod 
before  the  fire,  and,  while  they  talked,  Miss  Buchanan 


198  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

shot  rather  sharper  glances  at  him  from  under  her 
eyebrows. 

"So  you  were  at  Merriston  with  Helen's  Miss  Jakes," 
she  said,  placing  him.  "It  made  a  match,  that  party, 
didn't  it?  Quite  a  good  thing  for  Gerald  Digby,  too, 
I  hear.  Miss  Jakes  is  soon  to  be  back,  Helen  tells  me." 

"Next  week,"  said  Franklin. 

"And  the  wedding  for  November." 

"So  I  'm  told." 

"You  've  know  Miss  Jakes  for  some  time?" 

"For  almost  all  my  life,"  said  Franklin,  with  his 
calm  and  candid  smile. 

"Oh,  old  friends,  then.  You  come  from  Boston,  too, 
perhaps  ? ' ' 

"Well,  I  come  from  the  suburbs,  in  the  first  place, 
but  I  've  been  in  the  hub  itself  for  a  long  time  now," 
said  Franklin.  "Yes,  I  'm  a  very  old  friend  of  Miss 
Jakes 's.  I  'm  very  much  attached  to  her." 

"Ah,  and  are  you  pleased  with  the  match?" 

"It  seems  to  please  Althea,  and  that  's  the  main 
thing.  I  think  Mr.  Digby  will  make  her  happy;  yes, 
I  'm  pleased." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Buchanan  meditatively.  "Yes,  I 
suppose  Gerald  Digby  will  make  a  pleasant  husband. 
He  's  a  pleasant  creature.  I  've  always  considered  him 
very  selfish,  I  confess;  but  women  seem  to  fall  in  love 
with  selfish  men." 

Franklin  received  this  ambiguous  assurance  with  a 
moment  or  so  of  silence,  and  then  remarked  that  mar 
riage  might  make  Mr.  Digby  less  selfish. 

"You  mean,"  said  Miss  Buchanan,  "that  she  's  sel 
fish  too,  and  won't  let  him  have  it  all  his  own  way?" 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  199 

Franklin  did  not  mean  that  at  all.  "Life  with  a 
high-minded,  true-hearted  woman:  sometimes  alters  a 
man,"  he  commented. 

"Oh,  she  's  that,  is  she?"  said  Miss  Buchanan. 
"I  've  not  met  her  yet,  you  see.  Well,  I  don't  know 
that  I  Ve  much  expectation  of  seeing  Gerald  Digby 
alter.  But  he  's  a  pleasant  creature,  as  I  said,  and  I 
don't  think  he  's  a  man  to  make  any  woman  unhappy. 
In  any  case  your  friend  is  probably  better  off  married 
to  a  pleasant,  selfish  man  than  not  married  at  all,"  and 
Miss  Buchanan  smiled  a  tight,  kindly  smile.  "I  don't 
like  this  modern  plan  of  not  getting  married.  I  want 
all  the  nice  young  women  I  know  to  get  married,  and 
the  sooner  the  better;  it  gives  them  less  time  to  fuss 
over  their  feelings." 

' '  Well,  it  's  better  to  fuss  before  than  after,  isn  't  it  ? " 
Franklin  inquired. 

"Fussing  after  doesn't  do  much  harm,"  said  Miss 
Buchanan,  "and  there  's  not  so  much  time  for  fussing 
then.  It  's  fussing  before  that  leaves  so  many  of  the 
nicest  girls  old  maids.  My  niece  Helen  is  the  nicest  girl 
I  know,  and  I  sometimes  think  she  '11  never  marry  now. 
It  vexes  me  very  much,"  said  Miss  Buchanan. 

"She  's  a  very  nice  girl,"  said  Franklin.  "And 
she  's  a  very  noble  woman.  But  she  doesn't  know  it; 
she  doesn't  know  her  own  capacities.  I  'm  very  much 
attached  to  your  niece,  Miss  Buchanan." 

Miss  Buchanan  shot  him  another  glance  and  then 
laughed.  "Well,  we  can  shake  hands  over  that,"  she 
remarked.  "So  am  I.  And  you  are  quite  right;  she 
is  a  fine  creature  and  she  's  never  had  a  chance." 

"Ah,  that  's  just  my  point,"  said  Franklin  gravely. 


200  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"She  ought  to  have  a  chance;  it  ought  to  be  made  for 
her,  if  she  can 't  make  it  for  herself.  And  she  's  too  big 
a  person  for  that  commonplace  solution  of  yours,  Miss 
Buchanan.  You  're  of  the  old  ideas,  I  see;  you  don't 
think  of  women  as  separate  individuals,  with  their  own 
worth  and  identity.  You  think  of  them  as  borrowing 
worth  and  identity  from  some  man.  Now  that  may  be 
good  enough  for  the  nice  girl  who  's  only  a  nice  girl, 
but  it  's  not  good  enough  for  your  niece,  not  good 
enough  for  a  noble  woman.  I  'd  ask  a  happy  marriage 
for  her,  of  course,  but  I  'd  ask  a  great  deal  more.  She 
ought  to  put  herself  to  some  work,  develop  herself,  find 
herself  all  round." 

Miss  Buchanan,  while  Franklin  delivered  himself  of 
these  convictions,  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  arms 
crossed  on  her  bosom,  and  observed  him  with  amused 
intentness.  When  he  had  done,  she  thus  continued  to 
observe  him  for  some  moments  of  silence.  "No,  I  'm 
of  the  old  ideas,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  don't  want 
work  for  Helen,  or  development,  or  anything  of  that 
sort.  I  want  happiness  and  the  normal  life.  I  don't 
care  about  women  doing  things,  in  that  sense,  unless 
they  've  nothing  better  to  do.  If  Helen  were  married 
to  a  man  of  position  and  ability  she  would  have  quite 
enough  to  occupy  her.  Women  like  Helen  are  made 
to  hold  and  decorate  great  positions ;  it  's  the  ugly,  the 
insignificant  women,  who  can  do  the  work  of  the 
world." 

Franklin  heard  her  with  a  cheerful,  unmoved 
countenance,  and  after  a  moment  of  reflection  observed, 
"Well,  that  seems  to  me  mighty  hard  on  the  women 
who  aren't  ugly  and  insignificant — mighty  hard,"  and 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  201 

as  Miss  Buchanan  looked  mystified,  he  was  going  on  to 
demonstrate  to  her  that  to  do  the  work  of  the  world  was 
every  human  creature's  highest  privilege,  when  Helen 
entered. 

Franklin,  as  he  rose  and  saw  his  friend  again,  had  a 
new  impression  of  her  and  a  rather  perturbing  one. 
Little  versed  as  he  was  in  the  lore  of  the  world — the 
world  in  Miss  Buchanan's  sense — he  felt  that  Helen, 
perhaps,  expressed  what  Miss  Buchanan  could  not 
prove.  It  was  true,  her  lovely,  recondite  personality 
seemed  to  flash  it  before  him,  she  didn't  fit  easily  into 
his  theories  of  efficiency  and  self -development  by  effort. 
Effort — other  people's  effort — seemed  to  have  done  long 
ago  all  that  was  necessary  for  her.  She  was  developed, 
she  was  finished,  she  seemed  to  belong  to  quite  another 
order  of  things  from  that  which  he  believed  in,  to  an 
order  framed  for  her  production,  as  it  were,  and  justi 
fied,  perhaps,  by  her  mere  existence.  She  was  like  a 
flower,  and  ought  a  flower  to  be  asked  to  do  more  than 
to  show  itself  and  bloom  in  silence? 

Franklin  hardly  formulated  these  heresies;  they  hov 
ered,  only,  as  a  sort  of  atmosphere  that  had  its  charm 
and  yet  its  sadness  too,  and  that  seemed,  in  charm  and 
sadness,  to  be  part  of  Helen  Buchanan's  very  being. 

She  had  taken  his  hand  and  was  looking  at  him  with 
those  eyes  of  distant  kindness — so  kind  and  yet  so 
distant — and  she  said  in  the  voice  that  was  so  sincere 
and  so  decisive,  a  voice  sweet  and  cold  as  a  mountain 
brook,  that  she  was  very  glad  to  see  him  again. 

Yes,  she  was  like  a  flower,  a  flower  removed  im 
measurably  from  his  world;  a  flower  in  a  crystal  vase, 
set  on  a  high  and  precious  cabinet,  and  to  be  approached 


202  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

only  over  stretches  of  shining  floor.  What  had  he  to  do 
with,  or  to  think  of,  such  a  young  woman  who,  though 
poverty-stricken,  looked  like  a  princess,  and  who, 
though  smiling,  had  at  her  heart,  he  knew,  a  despair  of 
life? 

"I  'm  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you,"  he  said  gravely, 
despite  himself,  and  scanning  her  face;  "it  seems  a 
very  long  time." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  have  been  doing  a  great 
deal?" 

"Yes;  and  I  suppose  it  means  that  I  Ve  missed  you 
a  great  deal,  too, ' '  said  Franklin.  ' '  I  got  into  the  habit 
of  you  at  Merriston ;  I  feel  it  's  queer  not  to  find  you  in 
a  chair  under  a  tree  every  day." 

"I  know,"  said  Helen;  "one  gets  so  used  to  people  at 
country  houses;  it  's  seeing  them  at  breakfast  that  does 
it,  I  think.  It  was  nice  under  that  tree,  wasn't  it?  and 
how  lazy  I  was.  I  'm  much  more  energetic  now;  I  've 
got  to  the  Purgatory,  with  the  dictionary.  Am  I  to 
have  a  fresh  pot  of  tea  to  myself,  kind  Aunt  Grizel? 
You  see  how  I  am  spoiled,  Mr.  Kane." 

She  had  drawn  off  her  gloves  and  tossed  aside  her 
long,  soft  coat — that  looked  like  nobody  else's  coat — 
and,  thin  and  black  and  idle,  she  sat  in  a  low  chair  by 
the  fire,  and  put  out  her  hand  for  the  cup.  "I  've  been 
to  a  musical,"  she  said.  And  she  told  them  how  she 
had  been  wedged  into  a  corner  for  an  interminable 
sonata  and  hadn't  been  able  to  get  away.  "I  tried  to, 
once,  but  my  hostess  saw  me  and  made  a  most  ominous 
hiss  at  me ;  every  one 's  eye  was  turned  on  me,  and  I 
sank  back  again,  covered  with  shame  and  confusion." 

Then  she  questioned  him,  and  Franklin  told  her  about 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  203 

his  interesting  little  tour,  and  the  men  he  had  met  and 
the  work  they  were  doing.  ''Splendid  work,  I  can  tell 
you,"  said  Franklin,  "and  you  have  splendid  men. 
It  's  been  a  great  time  for  me ;  it  's  done  me  a  lot  of 
good.  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  got  hold  of  England;  it  's  al 
most  like  being  at  home  when  you  find  so  many  splendid 
people  interested  in  the  things  that  interest  you." 

And  presently,  after  a  little  pause,  in  which  he  con 
templated  the  fire,  he  added,  lifting  his  eyes  to  Helen 
and  smiling  over  the  further  idea:  "And  see  here, 
I  'm  forgetting  another  thing  that  's  happened  to  me 
since  I  saw  you." 

"Something  nice,  I  hope." 

"Well,  that  depends  on  how  one  looks  at  it,"  said 
Franklin,  considering.  "I  can't  say  that  it  pleases 
me;  it  rather  oppresses  me,  in  fact.  But  I  'm  going 
to  get  even  with  it,  though  that  will  take  thought — 
thought  and  training." 

"It  sounds  as  though  you  were  going  to  be  a  jockey." 

"No,  I  'm  not  going  to  be  a  jockey,"  said  Franklin. 
"It  's  more  solemn  than  you  think.  What  do  you  say 
to  this?  I  'm  a  millionaire;  I  'm  a  multi-millionaire. 
If  that  isn  't  solemn  I  don 't  know  what  is. ' ' 

Miss  Grizel  Buchanan  put  down  the  long  golf-stock 
ing  she  was  knitting,  and,  over  her  spectacles,  fixed  her 
eyes  on  the  strange  young  man  who  had  delayed  till 
now  the  telling  of  this  piece  of  news.  She  examined 
him.  In  all  her  experience  she  had  never  come  across 
anything  like  him.  Helen  gave  a  little  exclamation. 

' '  My  dear  Mr.  Kane,  I  do  congratulate  you, ' '  she  said. 

"Why?"  asked  Franklin. 

"Why,  it  's  glorious  news,"  said  Helen. 


204 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Franklin.  "I  'm 
not  a  glorious  person.  The  mere  fact  of  being  a  mil 
lionaire  isn't  glorious;  it  may  be  lamentable." 

' '  The  mere  fact  of  power  is  glorious.  What  shall  you 
do?"  asked  Helen,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  him  as 
though  to  see  in  him  all  the  far,  new  possibilities. 

"Well,  I  shall  do  as  much  as  I  can  for  my  own  science 
of  physics — that  is  rather  glorious,  I  own.  I  shall  be 
able  to  help  the  first-rate  men  to  get  at  all  sorts  of 
problems,  perhaps.  Yes,  that  is  rather  glorious." 

"And  won't  you  build  model  villages  and  buy  a 
castle  and  marry  a  princess?" 

"I  don't  like  castles  and  I  don't  know  anything 
about  princesses,"  said  Franklin,  smiling.  "As  for 
philanthropy,  I  '11  let  people  wiser  than  I  am  at  it 
think  out  plans  for  doing  good  with  the  money.  I  '11 
devote  myself  to  doing  what  I  know  something  about. 
I  do  know  something  about  physics,  and  I  believe  I  can 
do  something  in  that  direction." 

"You  take  your  good  fortune  very  calmly,  Mr. 
Kane,"  Miss  Grizel  now  observed.  "How  long  have 
you  known  about  it?" 

"Well,  I  heard  a  week  ago,  and  news  has  been  piling 
in  ever  since.  I  'm  fairly  snowed  up  with  cables," 
said  Franklin.  "It  's  an  old  uncle  of  mine — my 
mother's  brother — who  's  left  it  to  me.  He  always 
liked  me;  we  were  always  great  friends.  He  went  out 
west  and  built  railroads  and  made  a  fortune — honestly, 
too ;  the  money  is  clean — as  clean  as  you  can  get  it  now 
adays,  that  is  to  say.  I  couldn't  take  it  if  it  wasn't. 
The  only  thing  to  do  with  money  that  isn't  clean  is  to 
hand  it  over  to  the  people  it  's  been  wrongfully  taken 
from — to  the  nation,  you  know.  It  's  a  pity  that  isn't 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  205 

done ;  it  would  be  a  lot  better  than  building  universities 
and  hospitals  with  it — though  it  's  a  problem;  yes,  I 
know  it  's  a  problem."  Franklin  seemed  to-day  rather 
oppressed  with  a  sense  of  problems.  He  gave  this  one 
up  after  a  thoughtful  survey  of  the  fire,  and  went  on: 
"He  was  a  fine  old  fellow,  my  uncle;  I  didn't  see  him 
often,  but  we  sometimes  wrote,  and  he  used  to  like  to 
hear  how  I  was  getting  on  in  my  work.  He  didn't 
know  much  about  it;  I  don't  think  he  ever  got  over 
thinking  that  atoms  wrere  a  sort  of  bug."  Franklin 
smiled,  unaware  of  his  listener's  surprise;  "but  he 
seemed  to  like  to  hear,  so  I  always  told  him  everything 
I  'd  time  to  write  about.  It  made  me  sad  to  hear  he  'd 
gone;  but  it  was  a  fine  life,  yes,  it  was  a  mighty  big, 
fine,  useful  life,"  said  Franklin  Kane,  looking  thought 
fully  into  the  fire.  And  while  he  looked,  musing  over 
his  memories,  Miss  Buchanan  and  her  niece  exchanged 
glances.  "This  is  a  very  odd  creature,  and  a  very  nice 
one,"  Miss  Grizel's  glance  said;  and  Helen's  replied, 
with  playful  eyebrows  and  tender  lips,  "Isn't  he  a 
funny  dear?" 

"Now,  see  here,"  said  Franklin,  looking  up  from  his 
appreciative  retrospect  and  coming  back  to  the  present 
and  its  possibilities,  "now  that  I  've  got  all  this  money, 
you  must  let  me  spend  a  little  of  it  on  having  good  times. 
You  must  let  me  take  you  to  plays  and  concerts — any 
thing  you  've  time  for,  and  I  hope,  Miss  Buchanan," 
said  Franklin,  turning  his  bright  gaze  upon  the  older 
lady,  "that  I  can  persuade  you  to  come  too." 

Helen  said  that  she  would  be  delighted,  and  Miss 
Grizel  avowred  herself  a  devoted  playgoer,  and  Frank 
lin,  taking  out  his  note-book  inscribed  their  willingness 
to  do  a  play  on  Wednesday  night.  "Now,"  he  said, 


206  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

scanning  its  pages,  "Althea  lands  on  Friday  and  Mr. 
Digby  goes  to  meet  her,  I  suppose.  They  must  come 
in,  too;  we  '11  all  have  fun  together." 

"Gerald  can't  meet  her,"  said  Helen;  "he  has  an 
engagement  in  the  country,  and  doesn't  get  back  to 
London  till  Saturday.  It  's  an  old  standing  engage 
ment  for  a  ball.  I  'm  to  welcome  Althea  back  to  Lon 
don  for  him." 

Franklin  paused,  his  note-book  in  his  hand,  and 
looked  over  it  at  Helen.  He  seemed  taken  aback, 
though  at  once  he  mastered  his  surprise.  "Oh,  is  that 
so?"  was  his  only  comment.  Then  he  added,  after  a 
moment's  reflection:  "Well,  I  guess  I  '11  run  up  and 
meet  her  myself,  then.  I  've  always  met  her  and  seen 
her  off  in  America,  and  we  '11  keep  up  the  old  custom 
on  this  side." 

"That  would  be  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Helen.  "Of 
course  she  has  that  invaluable  Amelie  to  look  after  her, 
and,  of  course,  Gerald  knew  that  she  wrould  be  all  right, 
or  he  would  have  managed  it." 

"Of  course,"  said  Franklin.  "And  we  '11  keep  up 
the  old  custom. ' ' 

That  evening  there  arrived  for  Miss  Buchanan  and 
her  niece  two  large  boxes — one  for  Miss  Grizel,  contain 
ing  carnations  and  roses,  and  one  for  Helen  containing 
violets.  Also,  for  the  younger  lady,  was  a  smaller — yet 
still  a  large  box — of  intricately  packed  and  very  sophisti 
cated  sweets.  Upon  them  Mr.  Kane  had  laid  a  card 
which  read :  "I  don 't  approve  of  them,  but  I  'm  send 
ing  them  in  the  hope  that  you  do."  Another  box  for 
Miss  Grizel  contained  fresh  groundsel  and  chickweed 
for  her  canaries. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ALTHEA  was  an  excellent  sailor  and  her  voyage 
back  to  England  was  as  smooth  and  as  swift  as 
money  could  make  it.  She  had  been  seen  on5  by  many 
affectionate  friends,  and,  since  leaving  America,  the 
literature,  the  flowers  and  the  fruit  with  which  they 
had  provided  her  had  helped  to  pass  the  hours, 
tedious  at  best  on  ship-board.  Two  other  friends,  not 
so  near,  but  very  pleasant — they  were  New  York  peo 
ple — were  also  making  the  voyage,  but  as  they  were 
all  very  sea-sick,  intercourse  with  them  consisted 
mainly  in  looking  in  upon  them  as  they  lay,  mute 
and  enduring,  within  their  berths,  and  cheering  them 
with  the  latest  reports  of  progress.  Althea  looked 
in  upon  them  frequently,  and  she  read  all  her  books, 
and  much  of  her  time,  besides,  had  been  spent  in 
long,  formless  meditations — her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
rippled,  grey  expanse  of  the  Atlantic  while  she  lay 
encased  in  furs  on  her  deck  chair.  These  medita 
tions  were  not  precisely  melancholy,  it  was  rather  a 
brooding  sense  of  vague  perplexity  that  filled  the  dream 
like  hours.  She  had  left  her  native  land,  and  she  was 
speeding  towards  her  lover  and  towards  her  new  life; 
there  might  have  been  exhilaration  as  well  as  melan 
choly  in  these  facts.  But  though  she  was  not  melan 
choly,  she  was  not  exhilarated.  It  was  a  confused 
regret  that  came  over  her  in  remembering  Boston,  and 

207 


208 

it  was  a  confused  expectancy  that  filled  her  when  she 
looked  forward  to  Gerald.  Gerald  had  written  to  her 
punctually  once  a  week  while  she  had  been  in  America, 
short,  but  very  vivid,  very  interesting  and  affectionate 
letters.  They  told  her  about  what  he  was  doing,  what 
he  was  reading,  the  people  he  saw  and  his  projects  for 
their  new  life  together.  He  took  it  for  granted  that 
this  was  what  she  wanted,  and  of  course  it  was  what 
she  wanted,  only — and  it  was  here  that  the  confused 
regrets  arose  in  remembering  Boston — the  letters  re 
ceived  there,  where  she  was  so  much  of  a  centre  and  so 
little  of  a  satellite,  had  seemed,  in  some  way,  lacking 
in  certain  elements  that  Boston  supplied,  but  that  Mer- 
riston  House,  she  more  and  more  distinctly  saw,  would 
never  offer.  She  was,  for  her  own  little  circle,  quite 
important  in  Boston.  At  Merriston  House  she  would 
be  important  only  as  Gerald  Digby's  wife  and  as  the 
mistress  of  his  home,  and  that  indeed — this  was  another 
slightly  confusing  fact — would  not  be  great  importance. 
Even  in  Boston,  she  had  felt,  her  importance  was  still 
entirely  personal ;  she  had  gained  none  from  her  coming 
marriage.  Her  friends  were  perfectly  accustomed  to 
the  thought  of  coronets  and  ancient  estates  in  connec 
tion  with  foreign  alliances,  and  Althea  was  a  little  vexed 
in  feeling  that  they  really  did  not  appreciate  at  its 
full  value  the  significance  of  a  simple  English  gentle 
man  with  a  small  country  seat.  "I  suppose  you  '11  live 
quite  quietly,  Althea,  dear,"  more  than  one  old  friend 
had  said,  with  an  approbation  not  altogether  grateful 
to  her.  "Your  aunt  tells  me  that  it  's  such  a  nice  little 
place,  your  future  home.  I  'm  so  glad  you  are  not 
making  a  great  worldly  match."  Althea  had  no  wish 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  209 

to  make  a  great  worldly  match,  but  she  did  not  care 
that  her  friends  should  see  her  upon  such  an  over-em- 
phatically  sober  background. 

The  report  of  Gerald's  charm  had  been  the  really 
luminous  fact  in  her  new  situation,  and  it  had  been 
most  generously  spread  by  Aunt  Julia.  Althea  had 
felt  warmed  by  the  compensatory  brightness  it  cast 
about  her.  Althea  Jakes  was  not  going  to  make  a  great 
match,  but  she  was,  and  everybody  knew  it,  going  to 
marry  a  "perfectly  charming"  man.  This,  after  all, 
was  to  be  crowned  with  beams.  It  was  upon  the 
thought  of  that  charm  that  she  dwelt  when  the  long 
meditations  became  oppressively  confused.  She  might 
be  giving  up  certain  things — symbolised  by  the  books, 
the  fruit,  the  flowers,  that  testified  to  her  importance  in 
Boston ;  she  might  be  going  to  accept  certain  difficulties 
and  certain  disappointments,  but  the  firm  ground  on 
which  she  stood  was  the  fact  that  Gerald  was  charming. 
At  moments  she  felt  herself  yearn  towards  that  charm ; 
it  was  a  reviving  radiance  in  which  she  must  steep  her 
rather  numbed  and  rather  weary  being.  To  see  his 
eyes,  to  see  his  smile,  to  hear  his  voice  that  made  her 
think  of  bells  and  breezes,  would  be  enough  to  banish 
wistfulness,  or,  at  all  events,  to  put  it  in  its  proper  place 
as  merely  temporary  and  negligeable. 

Althea 's  heart  beat  fast  as  the  shores  of  Ireland  stole 
softly  into  sight  on  a  pearly  horizon,  and  it  really  flut 
tered,  like  that  of  any  love-sick  girl,  when  her  packet  of 
letters  was  brought  to  her  at  Queenstown.  In  Gerald's 
she  would  feel  the  central  rays  coming  out  to  greet  her. 
But  when  she  had  read  Gerald's  letter  it  was  as  if  a 
blank  curtain  had  fallen  before  her  shutting  out  all 
14 


210  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

rays.  He  was  not  coming  to  meet  her  at  Liverpool. 
The  sharpness  of  her  dismay  was  like  a  box  on  the  ear, 
and  it  brought  tears  to  her  eyes  and  anger  to  her  heart. 
Yes,  actually,  with  no  contrition,  or  consciousness  of 
the  need  for  it,  he  said  quite  gaily  and  simply  that  he 
would  see  her  in  London  on  Saturday;  he  had  a  ball  in 
the  country  for  Friday  night.  He  offered  not  the  least 
apology.  He  was  perfectly  unaware  of  guilt.  And 
it  was  this  innocence  that,  after  the  first  anger,  filled 
poor  Althea  with  fear.  What  did  it  bode  for  the  fu 
ture?  Meanwhile  there  was  the  humiliating  fact  to 
face  that  she,  the  cherished  and  appreciated  Althea,  who 
had  never  returned  to  America  without  at  least  three 
devoted  friends  to  welcome  her,  was  to  land  on  the  dis- 
inal  Liverpool  docks  and  find  no  lover  to  greet  her  there. 
What  would  Mrs.  Peel  and  Sally  Arlington  think  when 
they  saw  her  so  bereft?  It  was  the  realisation  of  what 
they  would  think,  the  memory  of  the  American  wonder 
at  the  Englishman's  traditional  indifference  to  what 
the  American  woman  considered  her  due  in  careful 
chivalry,  that  roused  her  pride  to  the  necessity  of  self- 
preservation.  Mrs.  Peel  and  Sally,  at  all  events,  should 
not  imagine  her  to  be  either  angry  or  surprised.  She 
would  show  them  the  untroubled  matter-of-fact  of  the 
English  wife.  And  she  succeeded  admirably  in  this. 
When  Miss  Arlington,  sitting  up  and  dressed  at  last, 
said,  in  Mrs.  Peel's  cabin,  where,  leaning  on  Althea 's 
arm,  she  had  feebly  crept  to  tea,  "And  what  fun,  Al 
thea,  to  think  that  we  shall  see  him  to-morrow  morn 
ing,"  Althea  opened  candidly  surprised  eyes:  "See 
him?  Who,  dear?" 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  211 

"Why,  Mr.  Digby,  of  course.  Who  else  could  be 
him?"  said  Miss  Arlington. 

"But  he  isn't  coming  to  Liverpool,"  said  Althea 
blandly. 

"Not  coming  to  meet  you?"  Only  tact  controlled 
the  amazement  in  Miss  Arlington's  question. 

"Didn't  you  know?  Gerald  is  a  very  busy  man;  he 
has  had  a  long-standing  engagement  for  this  week,  and 
besides  I  shouldn't  have  liked  him  to  come.  I  'd  far 
rather  meet  comfortably  in  London,  where  I  shall  see 
him  the  first  thing  on  Saturday.  And  then  you  '11  see 
him  too." 

She  only  wished  that  she  could  really  feel,  what  she 
showed  them — such  calm,  such  reasonableness,  and  such 
detachment. 

It  was  with  a  gloomy  eye  that  she  surveyed  the  Liver 
pool  docks  in  the  bleak  dawn  next  morning,  seated  in 
her  chair,  Amelie  beside  her,  a  competent  Atlas,  bearing 
a  complicated  assortment  of  bags,  rugs,  and  wraps.  No, 
she  had  nothing  to  hope  from  these  inhospitable  shores; 
no  welcoming  eyes  were  there  to  greet  hers.  It  was 
difficult  not  to  cry  as  she  watched  the  ugly  docks  draw 
near  and  saw  the  rows  of  ugly  human  faces  upturned 
upon  it — peculiarly  ugly  in  colour  the  human  face  at 
this  hour  of  the  morning.  Then,  suddenly,  Amelie 
made  a  little  exclamation  and  observed  in  dispassionate 
yet  approving  tones,  "Tiens;  et  voila  Monsieur  Frank- 
line." 

"Who?    Where?"    Althea  rose  in  her  chair. 

"Mais  oui;  c'est  bien  Monsieur  Frankline,"  Amelie 
pointed.  "Voila  ce  qui  est  gentil,  par  exemple,"  and 


212  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

by  this  comment  of  Amelie's  Althea  knew  that  Gerald's 
absence  was  observed  and  judged.  She  got  out  of  her 
chair,  yet  with  a  strange  reluctance.  It  was  not  pleas 
ure  that  she  felt;  it  was,  rather,  a  fuller  realisation  of 
pain.  Going  to  the  railing  she  looked  down  at  the 
wharf.  Yes,  there  was  Franklin's  pale  buff-coloured 
countenance  raised  to  hers,  serene  and  smiling.  He 
waved  his  hat.  Althea  was  only  able  not  to  look  dis 
mayed  and  miserable  in  waving  back.  That  Franklin 
should  care  enough  to  come;  that  Gerald  should  care 
too  little.  But  she  drew  herself  together  to  smile 
brightly  down  upon  her  faithful  lover.  Franklin — 
Franklin  above  all — must  not  guess  what  she  was  feel 
ing. 

''Well,"  were  his  first  words,  as  she  came  down  the 
gang-way,  "I  thought  we  'd  keep  up  our  old  American 
habits."  The  words,  she  felt,  were  very  tactful;  they 
made  things  easier  for  her;  they  even  comforted  her  a 
little.  One  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  Gerald  if  it  was  an 
American  habit. 

"It  is  a  nice  one,"  she  said,  grasping  Franklin's 
hand.  "I  must  make  Gerald  acquire  it." 

"Why  don't  you  keep  it  for  me?"  smiled  Franklin. 
She  felt,  as  he  piloted  her  to  the  Customs,  that  either  his 
tact  or  his  ingenuousness  was  sublime.  She  leaned  on 
it,  whichever  it  was. 

"Have  you  seen  Gerald?"  she  asked,  as  they  stood 
beside  her  marshalled  array  of  boxes.  "He  seemed 
very  fit  and  happy  in  the  letters  I  had  at  Queenstown." 

"No,  I  've  not  seen  him  yet,"  smiled  Franklin,  look 
ing  about  to  catch  the  eye  of  an  official. 

"Then" — was  on  the  tip  of  Althea 's  tongue — "how 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  213 

did  you  know  I  was  not  going  to  be  met?"  She 
checked  the  revealing  question,  and  Franklin's  next 
remark — whether  tactful  or  ingenuous  in  its  appropri 
ateness  she  once  more  could  not  tell — answered  it: 
"I  've  been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Miss  Buchanan ;  she 
told  me  Mr.  Digby  wouldn't  be  able  to  come  up  here." 

"Oh— Helen!"  Althea  was  thankful  to  be  able  to 
pass  from  the  theme  of  Gerald  and  his  inabilities.  "So 
you  have  been  seeing  her.  Have  you  been  long  in  Lon 
don?  Have  you  seen  her  often?" 

"I  got  to  London  last  Monday,  and  I  Ve  seen  her  as 
often  as  she  could  let  me.  We  're  very  good  friends, 
you  know,"  said  Franklin. 

She  didn  't  know  at  all,  and  she  found  the  information 
rather  bewildering.  At  Merriston  her  own  situation 
had  far  too  deeply  absorbed  her  to  leave  her  much  at 
tention  for  other  people's.  She  had  only  noticed  that 
Helen  had  been  kind  to  Franklin.  She  suspected  that 
it  was  now  his  ingenuousness  that  idealised  Helen's  tol 
erant  kindness.  But  though  her  superior  sophistication 
made  a  little  touch  of  irony  unavoidable,  it  was  over 
whelmed  in  the  warm  sense  of  gratitude. 

Everything  was  in  readiness  for  her;  her  corner  seat 
in  the  train,  facing  the  engine ;  a  foot-warmer ;  the  latest 
magazines,  and  a  box  of  fruit.  How  it  all  brought  back 
Boston — dear  Boston — and  the  reviving  consciousness 
of  imaginative  affection.  And  how  it  brought  back 
Franklin.  Well,  everybody  ought  to  be  his  good  friend, 
even  if  they  weren't  so  in  reality. 

"You  didn't  suppose  I  'd  forget  you  liked  musca 
tels  ? ' '  inquired  Franklin,  with  a  mild  and  unreproachf ul 
gentleness  when  she  exclaimed  over  the  nectarines  and 


214  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

grapes.  "Now,  please,  sit  back  and  let  me  put  this  rug 
around  you;  it  's  chilly,  and  you  look  rather  pale." 
He  then  went  off  and  looked  out  for  her  friends  and  for 
Amelie.  Mrs.  Peel  and  Sally,  when  they  arrived  with 
him,  showed  more  than  the  general  warmth  of  compa 
triots  in  a  foreign  land.  They  knew  Franklin  but 
slightly,  and  he  could  but  have  counted  with  them  as 
one  of  Althea's  former  suitors;  but  now,  she  saw  it, 
he  took  his  place  in  their  eyes  as  the  devoted  friend, 
and,  as  the  journey  went  on,  counted  for  more  and 
more  in  his  own  right.  Sally  and  Mrs.  Peel  evidently 
thought  Franklin  a  dear.  Althea  thought  so  too,  her 
eyes  dwelling  on  him  with  wistful  observation.  There 
was  no  charm;  there  never  had  been  charm;  but  the 
thought  of  charm  sickened  her  a  little  just  now.  What 
she  rested  in  was  this  affection,  this  kindness,  this  con 
stant  devotion  that  had  never  failed  her  in  the  greatest 
or  the  littlest  things.  And  though  it  was  not  to  see  him 
change  into  a  different  creature,  not  to  see  him  move 
on  into  a  different  category — as  he  had  changed  and 
moved  in  the  eyes  of  the  Miss  Buchanans — he  did  gain 
in  significance  when,  after  a  little  while,  he  informed 
them  of  the  new  fact  in  his  life — the  fact  of  millions. 
They  were  Americans  of  an  old  stock,  and  millions 
meant  to  them  very  external  and  slightly  suspicious 
things — things  associated  with  rawness  and  low  ideals; 
but  they  couldn't  associate  Franklin  with  low  ideals. 
They  exclaimed  with  interest  and  sympathy  over  his 
adventure,  and  they  felt  nothing  funny  in  his  projects 
for  benefiting  physics.  They  all  understood  each  other ; 
they  took  light  things — like  millions — lightly,  and  grave 
things — like  ideals  and  responsibilities — gravely.  And, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  215 

ah  yes,  there  it  was — Althea  turning  her  head  to  look  at 
the  speeding  landscape  of  autumnal  pearl  and  gold, 
thought,  over  her  sense  of  smothered  tears — they  knew 
what  things  were  really  serious.  They  couldn't  mistake 
the  apparent  for  the  real  triviality;  they  knew  that 
some  symbols  of  affection — trifling  as  they  might  be — 
were  almost  necessary.  But  then  they  understood  affec 
tion.  It  was  at  this  point  that  her  sore  heart  sank  to 
a  leaden  depression.  Affection — cherishing,  forestall 
ing,  imaginative  affection — there  was  no  lack  of  it,  she 
was  sure  of  that,  in  this  beautiful  England  of  pearl  and 
gold  which,  in  its  melancholy,  its  sweetness,  its  breath 
ing  out  of  memories  immemorial,  so  penetrated  and 
possessed  her;  but  was  there  not  a  terrible  lack  of 
it  in  the  England  that  was  to  be  hers,  and  where  she 
was  to  make  her  home? 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  was  four  days  after  Althea's  arrival  in  London 
that  Gerald  stood  in  Helen's  sitting-room  and  con 
fronted  her — smoking  her  cigarette  in  her  low  chair — 
as  he  had  confronted  her  that  summer  on  her  return 
from  Paris.  Gerald  looked  rather  absent  and  he  looked 
rather  worried,  and  Helen,  who  had  observed  these 
facts  the  moment  he  came  in,  was  able  to  observe  them 
for  some  time  while  he  stood  there  before  her,  not 
looking  at  her,  looking  at  nothing  in  particular,  his 
eyes  turning  vaguely  from  the  mist-enveloped  trees 
outside  to  the  flowers  on  the  writing-table,  and  his 
eyebrows,  always  very  expressive,  knitting  themselves 
a  little  or  lifting  as  if  in  the  attempt  to  dispel  recur 
rent  and  oppressive  preoccupations.  It  would  have 
been  natural  in  their  free  intercourse  that,  after  a 
certain  lapse  of  time,  Helen  should  ask  him  what  the 
matter  was,  helping  him  often,  with  the  mere  question, 
to  recognise  that  something  was  the  matter.  But  to 
day  she  said  nothing,  and  it  was  her  silence  instead 
of  her  questioning  that  made  Gerald  aware  that  he  was 
standing  there  expecting  to  have  his  state  of  mind 
probed  and  then  elucidated.  It  added  a  little  to  his 
sense  of  perplexity  that  Helen  should  be  silent,  and 
it  was  with  a  slight  irritation  that  he  turned  and 
kicked  a  log  before  saying — "I  'm  rather  bothered, 
Helen." 

216 


217 

"What  is  it?"  said  Helen.  "Money?"  This  had 
often  been  a  bother  to  them  both. 

Half  turned  from  her,  he  shook  his  head.  "No,  not 
money;  that  's  all  right  now,  thanks  to  Althea." 

"Well?"  Helen  questioned. 

He  faced  her  again,  a  little  quizzical,  a  little  con 
fused  and  at  a  loss.  "I  suppose  it  's  Althea  her 
self." 

"Oh!"  said  Helen.  She  said  it  with  a  perceptible, 
though  very  mild  change  of  tone;  but  Gerald,  in  his 
preoccupation,  did  not  notice  the  change. 

"You  've  seen  her  several  times  since  she  came 
back?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  twice;  I  lunched  with  her  and  these  American 
friends  of  hers  yesterday,"  said  Helen. 

"Well,  I  've  seen  her  three  times,"  said  Gerald.  "I 
went  to  her,  as  you  know,  directly  I  got  back  to  London 
on  Saturday;  I  cut  my  visit  at  the  Fanshawes  two 
days  shorter  on  purpose.  I  saw  her  on  Sunday,  and 
I  'm  just  come  from  her  now.  No  one  could  say  that 
I  didn't  show  her  every  attention,  could  they?"  It 
hardly  seemed  a  question,  and  Helen  did  not  answer 
it.  "I  don't  think  she  's  quite  pleased  with  me," 
Gerald  then  brought  out. 

Still  silent,  Helen  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  but 
her  gaze  gave  him  no  clue. 

"Can  you  imagine  why  not?"  he  asked. 

She  reflected,  then  she  said  that  she  couldn't. 

"Well,"  said  Gerald,  "I  think  it  's  because  I  didn't 
go  to  meet  her  at  Liverpool;  from  something  she  said, 
I  think  it  's  that.  But  I  never  dreamed  she  'd  mind, 
you  know.  And,  really,  I  ask  you,  Helen,  is  it  reason- 


218  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

able  to  expect  a  man  to  give  up  a  long-standing  en 
gagement  and  take  that  dreary  journey  up  to  that 
dreary  place — I  Ve  never  seen  the  Liverpool  docks, 
but  I  can  imagine  them  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
— is  it  reasonable,  I  say,  to  expect  that  of  any  man? 
It  wasn't  as  if  I  wasn't  to  see  her  the  next  day." 

Again  Helen  carefully  considered.  "I  suppose  she 
found  the  docks  very  dreary — at  six  o'clock,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"But  surely  that's  not  a  reason  for  wanting  me  to 
find  them  dreary  too,"  Gerald  laughed  rather  im 
patiently.  "I  'd  have  had  to  go  up  to  Liverpool  on 
Thursday  and  spend  the  night  there;  do  you  realise 
that?" 

Helen  went  on  with  the  theme  of  the  docks :  "I  sup 
pose  she  wouldn't  have  found  them  so  dreary  if  you  'd 
been  on  them;  and  I  suppose  she  expected  you  not  to 
find  them  dreary  for  the  same  reason. ' ' 

Gerald  contemplated  this  lucid  statement  of  the  case. 
"Has  she  talked  to  you  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  word.  Althea  is  very  proud.  If  you  have 
hurt  her  it  is  the  last  thing  that  she  would  talk 
about." 

"I  know  she  's  proud  and  romantic,  and  a  perfect 
dear,  of  course;  but  do  you  really  think  it  a  ground 
for  complaint?  I  mean — would  you  have  felt  hurt  in 
a  similar  case?" 

"I?  No,  I  don't  suppose  so;  but  Althea,  I  think,  is 
used  to  a  great  deal  of  consideration." 

"But,  by  Jove,  Helen,  I  'm  not  inconsiderate!" 

"Not  considerate,  in  the  way  Althea  is  used  to." 

"Ah,  that  's  just  it,"  said  Gerald,  as  if,  now,  they 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  219 

had  reached  the  centre  of  his  difficulty;  "and  I  can't 
pretend  to  be,  either.  I  can't  pretend  to  be  like  Mr. 
Kane.  Imagine  that  quaint  little  fellow  going  up  to 
meet  her.  You  must  own  it  's  rather  grotesque — 
rather  tasteless,  too,  I  think,  under  the  circumstances." 

"They  are  very  old  friends." 

"Well,  but  after  all,  he  's  Althea's  rejected  suitor." 

"It  wasn't  as  a  suitor,  it  was  as  a  friend  he  went. 
The  fact  that  she  rejected  him  doesn't  make  him  any 
less  her  friend,  or  any  less  solicitous  about  her." 

"It  makes  me  look  silly,  her  rejected  suitor  show 
ing  more  solicitude  than  I  do — unless  it  makes  him 
look  silly ;  I  rather  feel  it  's  that  way.  But,  apart  from 
that,  about  Althea,  I  'm  really  bothered.  It  's  all  right, 
of  course;  I  've  brought  her  round.  I  laughed  at  her 
a  little  and  teased  her  a  little,  and  told  her  not  to  be 
a  dear  little  goose,  you  know.  But,  Helen,  deuce  take 

it!  the  trouble  is "  Again  Gerald  turned  and 

kicked  the  log,  and  then,  his  hands  on  the  mantel 
piece,  he  gazed  with  frowning  intentness  into  the 
flames.  "She  takes  it  all  so  much  more  seriously  than 
I  do,"  so  he  finally  brought  out  his  distress;  "so  much 
more  seriously  than  I  can,  you  know.  It  's  all  right,  of 
course;  only  one  doesn't  know  quite  how  to  get  on." 
And  now,  turning  to  Helen,  he  found  her  eyes  on  his, 
and  her  silence  became  significant  to  him.  There  was 
no  response  in  her  eyes;  they  were  veiled,  mute;  they 
observed  him;  they  told  him  nothing.  And  he  had  a 
sense,  new  to  him  and  quite  inexpressibly  painful,  of 
being  shut  out.  "I  may  go  on  talking  to  you — about 
everything — as  I  have  always  done,  Helen?"  he  said. 
It  was  hardly  a  question ;  he  couldn  't  really  dream  that 


220  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

there  was  anything  not  to  be  talked  out  with  Helen. 
But  there  was.  Gerald  received  one  of  the  ugliest 
shocks  of  his  life  when  Helen  said  to  him  in  her  care 
ful  voice:  "You  may  not  talk  about  Althea  to  me; 
not  about  her  feeling  for  you — or  yours  for  her. ' ' 

There  was  a  pause  after  this,  and  then  Gerald  got 
out :  "I  say — Helen  ! "  on  a  long  breath,  staring  at 
her.  "You  mean —  "  he  stammered  a  little. 

"That  you  owe  it  to  Althea — just  because  we  had 
to  talk  her  over  once,  before  you  were  sure  that  you 
wanted  to  make  her  your  wife — not  to  discuss  her  feel 
ings  or  her  relation  to  you  with  anybody,  now  that  she 
is  to  be  your  wife.  I  should  think  you  would  see  that 
for  yourself,  Gerald.  I  should  think  you  would  see  that 
Althea  would  not  marry  you  if  she  thought  that  you 
were  capable  of  talking  her  over  with  me." 

Gerald  had  flushed  deeply  and  vividly.  "But  Helen 
— with  you!"  he  murmured.  It  was  a  helpless  appeal, 
a  helpless  protest.  His  whole  life  seemed  to  rise  up 
and  confront  her  with  the  contrast  between  their 
reality — his  relation  and  hers — and  the  relative  triv 
iality  of  this  new  episode  in  his  life.  And  there  was  his 
error,  and  there  her  inexorable  opposition;  the  episode 
was  one  no  longer;  he  must  not  treat  it  as  trivial,  a 
matter  for  mutual  musings  and  conjectures.  His 
"With  you!"  shook  Helen's  heart;  but,  looking  past 
him  and  hard  at  the  fire,  she  only  moved  her  head  in 
slow,  slight,  and  final  negation. 

Gerald  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  she  knew  that 
he  was  gazing  at  her  as  a  dog  gazes  when  some  inex 
orable  and  inexplicable  refusal  turns  its  world  to 
emptiness.  And  with  her  pain  for  his  pain  came  the 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  221 

rising  of  old  anger  and  old  irony  against  him;  for 
whose  fault  was  it  that  even  the  bitter  joy  of  perfect 
freedom  was  cut  off?  Who  had  been  so  blind  as  not 
to  see  that  a  wife  must,  in  common  loyalty,  bring  cir 
cumspection  and  a  careful  drawing  of  limits?  Who 
was  it  who,  in  his  folly,  had  not  known  that  his  im 
pulsive  acquiescence,  his  idle  acceptance  of  the  estab 
lished  comfort  and  order  held  out  to  him,  had  cut 
away  half  of  their  friendship?  Absurd  for  Gerald, 
now,  to  feel  reproach  and  injury.  For  when  he  spoke 
again  it  was,  though  in  careful  tones,  with  uncon 
trollable  reproach.  "You  know,  Helen,  I  never  ex 
pected  this.  I  don't  know  that  I  'd  have  been  able  to 

face  this "    He  checked  himself;   already  he  had 

learned  something  of  what  was  required  of  him.  "It  's 
like  poisoning  part  of  my  life  for  me." 

Helen  did  not  allow  the  bitter  smile  to  curl  her  lips; 
her  inner  rejoinder  answered  him  with:  "  Whose 
fault  is  it  that  -all  my  life  is  poisoned  ? ' ' 

"After  all,"  said  Gerald,  and  now  with  a  tremor  in 
his  voice,  "an  old  friend — a  friend  like  you — a  more 
than  sister — is  nearer  than  any  new  claims."  She  had 
never  heard  Gerald's  voice  break  before — for  anything 
to  do  with  her,  at  least — and  she  felt  that  her  cheek 
whitened  in  hearing  it;  but  she  was  able  to  answer  in 
the  same  even  tones:  "I  don't  think  so.  No  one  can 
be  near  enough  to  talk  about  your  wife  with  you." 

He  then  turned  his  back  and  looked  for  a  long  time 
into  the  fire.  She  guessed  that  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  that  he  was  fighting  with  anger,  pain,  and 
amazement,  and  the  knowledge  filled  her  with  cruel 
joy  and  with  a  torturing  pity.  She  longed  to  tell  him 


222  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

that  she  hated  him,  and  she  longed  to  put  her  arms 
around  him  and  to  comfort  him — comfort  him  because  he 
was  going  to  marry  some  one  else,  and  must  be  loyal 
to  the  woman  preferred  as  wife.  It  was  she,  however, 
who  first  recovered  herself.  She  got  up  and  pinched 
a  withered  flower  from  the  fine  azalea  that  Franklin 
Kane  had  sent  her  the  day  before,  and,  dropping  it 
into  the  waste-paper  basket,  she  said  at  last,  very 
resolutely,  "Come,  Gerald,  don't  be  silly." 

He  showed  her  now  the  face  of  a  miserable,  sulky 
boy,  and  Helen,  smiling  at  him,  went  on :  "  We  have 
a  great  many  other  subjects  of  conversation,  you  will 
recollect.  "We  can  still  talk  about  all  the  things  we 
used  to  talk  about.  Sit  down,  and  don't  look  like  that, 
or  I  shall  be  angry  with  you." 

She  knew  her  power  over  him;  it  was  able  to  deceive 
him  as  to  their  real  situation,  and  this  was  to  have 
obeyed  pity,  not  anger.  Half  unwillingly  he  smiled  a 
little,  and,  rubbing  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  sink 
ing  into  a  chair,  he  said:  "Laugh  at  me  if  yyou  feel 
like  it;  I  'm  ill-used." 

"Terribly  ill-used,  indeed,"  said  Helen.  "I  shall  go 
on  laughing  at  you  while  you  are  so  ridiculous.  Now 
tell  me  about  the  ball  at  the  Fanshawes,  and  who  was 
there,  and  who  was  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  room. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ALTHEA  had  intended  to  fix  the  time  of  her  mar 
riage  for  the  end  of  November;  but,  not  knowing 
quite  why,  she  felt  on  her  return  to  England  that  she 
would  prefer  a  slightly  more  distant  date.  It  might 
be  foolish  to  give  oneself  more  time  for  uneasy  medita 
tion,  yet  it  might  be  wise  to  give  oneself  more  time  for 
feeling  the  charm.  The  charm  certainly  worked. 
While  Gerald  opened  his  innocent,  yet  so  intelligent 
eyes,  rallied  her  on  her  dejection,  called  her  a  dear 
little  goose,  and  kissed  her  in  saying  it,  she  had  known 
that  however  much  he  might  hurt  her  she  was  help 
lessly  in  love  with  him.  In  telling  him  that  she  would 
marry  him  just  before  Christmas — they  were  to  have 
their  Christmas  in  the  Eiviera — she  didn't  intend  that 
he  should  be  given  more  opportunities  for  hurting  her, 
but  more  opportunities  for  charming  her.  Helplessly 
as  she  might  love,  her  heart  was  a  tremulously  careful 
one;  it  could  not  rush  recklessly  to  a  goal  nor  see  the 
goal  clearly  when  pain  intervened.  It  was  not  now 
actual  pain  or  doubt  it  had  to  meet,  but  it  was  that 
mist  of  confusion,  wonder,  and  wistfulness;  it  needed 
to  be  dispersed,  and  Gerald,  she  felt  sure,  would  disperse 
it.  Gerald,  after  a  questioning  lift  of  his  eyebrows, 
acquiesced  very  cheerfully  in  the  postponement.  After 
all,  they  really  didn't  know  each  other  very  well;  they 
would  shake  down  into  each  other's  ways  all  the  more 

223 


224  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

quickly,  after  marriage,  for  the  wisdom  gained  by  a 
longer  engagement.  He  expressed  these  reasonable 
resignations  to  Althea,  who  smiled  a  little  wanly  over 
them. 

She  was  now  involved  in  the  rash  of  new  impres 
sions.  They  were  very  crowded.  She  was  to  have  but 
a  fortnight  of  London  and  then,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Peel  and  Sally,  to  go  to  Merriston  for  another  fortnight 
or  so  before  coming  back  to  London  for  final  prepara 
tions.  Gerald  was  to  be  at  Merriston  for  part  of  the 
time,  and  Miss  Harriet  Robinson  was  coming  over  from 
Paris  to  sustain  and  guide  her  through  the  last  throes 
of  her  trousseau.  Already  every  post  brought  solemn 
letters  from  Miss  Robinson  filled  with  detailed  ques 
tionings  as  to  the  ordering  of  lingerie.  So  it  was  really 
in  this  fortnight  of  London  that  she  must  gain  her 
clearest  impression  of  what  her  new  environment  was 
to  be;  there  would  be  no  time  later  on. 

There  were  two  groups  of  impressions  that  she  felt 
herself  rather  breathlessly,  observing;  one  group  was 
made  by  Helen  and  Franklin  and  herself,  and  one  by 
Gerald's  friends  and  relatives,  with  Gerald  himself  as 
a  bright  though  uncertain  centre  to  it. 

Gerald's  friends  and  relations  were  all  very  nice  to 
her  and  all  very  charming  people.  She  had  never,  she 
thought,  met  so  many  people  at  once  to  whom  the  term 
might  be  applied.  Their  way  of  dressing,  their  way  of 
talking,  their  way  of  taking  you,  themselves,  and  every 
thing  so  easily,  seemed  as  nearly  perfect,  as  an  example 
of  human  achievement,  as  could  well  be.  Life  passed 
among  them  would  assuredly  be  a  life  of  gliding  along 
a  sunny,  unruffled  stream.  If  there  were  dark  things 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  225 

or  troubled  things  to  deal  with  they  were  kept  well 
below  the  shining  surface;  on  the  surface  one  always 
glided.  It  was  charming  indeed,  and  yet  Althea  looked 
a  little  dizzily  from  side  to  side,  as  if  at  familiar  but 
unattainable  shores,  and  wondered  if  some  solid  foot 
hold  on  solid  earth  were  not  preferable.  She  won 
dered  if  she  would  not  rather  walk  than  glide,  and 
under  the  gliding  she  caught  glimpses,  now  and  then, 
of  her  own  dark  wonders.  They  were  all  very  nice 
to  her;  but  it  was  as  Gerald's  wife  that  they  were 
nice  to  her;  she  herself  counted  for  nothing  with  them. 
They  were  frivolous  people  for  the  most  part,  though 
some  among  them  were  serious,  and  often  the  most 
frivolous  were  those  from  whom  she  would  have  ex 
pected  gravity,  and  the  serious  those  whom,  on  a  first 
meeting,  she  had  thought  perturbingly  frivolous.  Some 
of  the  political  friends — one  who  was  in  the  Cabinet, 
for  instance — seemed  to  think  more  about  hunting  and 
bridge  than  about  their  functions  in  the  State;  while 
an  aunt  of  Gerald's,  still  young  and  very  pretty,  wrote 
articles  on  philosophy  and  was  ardently  interested  in 
ethical  societies,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  rouged 
her  cheeks,  wore  clothes  so  fashionable  as  to  look 
recondite,  and  had  a  reputation  perfectly  presentable 
for  social  uses,  but  not  exempt  from  private  whispers. 
Althea  caught  such  whispers  with  particular  perturba 
tion.  The  question  of  morals  was  one  that  she  had 
imagined  herself  to  face  with  a  cosmopolitan  tolerance; 
but  she  now  realised  that  to  live  among  people  whose 
code,  in  this  respect,  seemed  one  of  manners  only,  was 
a  very  different  thing  from  reading  about  them  or 
seeing  them  from  afar,  as  it  were,  in  foreign  countries, 
is 


226  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Gerald's  friends  and  relatives  were  anything  rather 
than  Bohemian,  and  most  of  them  were  flawlessly 
respectable ;  but  they  were  also  anything  but  unworldly ; 
they  were  very  worldly,  and  from  the  implied  point  of 
view  of  all  of  them,  what  didn't  come  out  in  the  world 
it  didn't  concern  anybody  to  recognise — except  in 
whispers.  It  all  resolved  itself,  in  the  case  of  people 
one  disapproved  of,  into  a  faculty  for  being  nice  to 
them  without  really  having  anything  to  do  with  them; 
and  to  poor  Althea  this  was  a  difficult  task  to  under 
take;  social  life,  in  her  experience,  was  more  involved 
in  the  life  of  the  affections  and  matched  it  more  nearly. 
She  found,  when  the  fortnight  was  over,  that  she  was 
glad,  very  glad,  to  get  away  to  Merriston.  The  com 
parative  solitude  would  do  her  good,  she  felt,  and  in 
it,  above  all,  the  charm  would  perhaps  work  more 
restoringly  than  in  London.  She  had  been,  through 
everything,  more  aware  than  of  any  new  impression 
that  the  old  one  held  firm;  but,  in  that  breathless 
fortnight,  she  found  that  the  charm,  persistently,  would 
not  be  to  her  what  she  had  hoped  it  might  be.  It  did 
not  revive  her;  it  did  not  lift  and  glorify  her;  rather 
it  subjugated  her  and  held  her  helpless  and  in  thrall. 
She  was  not  crowned  with  beams;  rather,  it  seemed  to 
her  in  moments  of  dizzy  insight,  dragged  at  chariot 
wheels.  And  more  than  once  her  pride  revolted  as  she 
was  whirled  along. 

It  was  at  Merriston,  installed,  apparently,  so  happily 
with  her  friends,  that  the  second  group  of  impressions 
became  more  clear  for  her  than  it  had  been  in  London, 
when  she  had  herself  made  part  of  it — the  group  that 
had  to  do  with  Helen,  Franklin,  and  herself.  In  Lon- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  227 

don,  among  all  the  wider  confusions,  this  smaller  but 
more  intense  one  had  not  struck  her  as  it  did  seeing 
it  from  a  distance.  Perhaps  it  had  been  because 
Franklin,  among  all  that  glided,  had  been  the  raft 
she  stood  upon,  that,  in  his  company,  she  had  not  felt 
to  the  full  how  changed  was  their  relation.  His 
devotion  to  her  was  unchanged;  of  that  she  was  sure. 
Franklin  had  not  altered;  it  was  she  who  had  altered, 
and  she  had  now  to  look  at  him  from  the  new  angle 
where  her  own  choice  had  placed  her.  Seen  from  this 
angle  it  was  clear  that  Franklin  could  no  longer  offer 
just  the  same  devotion,  however  truly  he  might  feel  it; 
she  had  barred  that  out;  and  it  was  also  clear  that  he 
would  continue  to  offer  the  devotion  that  she  had  left 
it  open  to  him  to  offer;  but  here  came  the  strange  con 
fusion — this  devotion,  this  remnant,  this  all  that  could 
still  be  given,  hardly  differed  in  practice  from  the 
friendship  now  so  frankly  bestowed  upon  Helen  as  well 
as  upon  herself;  and,  for  a  further  strangeness,  Frank 
lin,  whom  she  had  helplessly  seen  as  passing  from  her 
life,  no  longer  counting  in  it,  was  not  gone  at  all;  he 
was  there,  indeed,  as  never  before,  with  the  background 
of  his  sudden  millions  to  give  him  significance.  Frank 
lin  was,  indeed,  as  firmly  ensconced  in  this  new  life 
that  she  had  entered  as  he  chose  to  be,  and  did  he 
not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  count  in  it  for  more  than  she 
did?  If  it  was  confusing  to  look  at  Franklin  from  the 
angle  of  her  own  withdrawal,  what  was  it  to  see  him 
altered,  for  the  wTorld,  from  drab  to  rose-colour 
and  to  see  that  people  were  running  after  him?  This 
fantastic  result  of  wealth,  Althea,  after  a  stare  or  two, 
was  able  to  accept  with  other  ironic  acceptations;  it 


228  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

was  not  indeed  London's  vision  of  Franklin  that  altered 
him  for  her,  though  it  confused  her;  no,  what  had 
altered  him  more  than  anything  else  she  could  have 
thought  possible,  was  Helen's  new  seeing  of  him. 
Helen,  she  knew  quite  well,  still  saw  Franklin,  pleas 
antly  and  clearly,  as  drab-colour,  still,  it  was  probable, 
saw  him  as  funny;  but  it  was  evident  that  Helen  had 
come  to  feel  fond  of  him,  if  anything  so  detached  could 
be  called  fondness.  He  could  hardly  count  for  any 
thing  with  her — after  all,  who  did? — but  she  liked  him, 
she  liked  him  very  much,  and  it  amused  her  to  watch 
him  adjust  himself  to  his  new  conditions.  She  took 
him  about  with  her  in  London  and  showed  him  things 
and  people,  ironically  smiling,  no  doubt,  and  guarding 
even  while  she  exposed.  And  Helen  wouldn't  do  this 
unless  she  had  come  to  see  something  more  than  drab- 
colour  and  oddity,  and  whatever  the  more  might  be  it 
was  not  the  millions.  No,  sitting  in  the  drawing-room 
at  Merriston,  with  its  memories  of  the  two  emotional 
climaxes  of  her  life,  Althea,  with  a  sinking  heart,  felt 
sure  that  she  had  lost  something,  and  that  she  only 
knew  it  lost  from  seeing  that  Helen  had  found  it.  It 
had  been  through  Helen's  blindness  to  the  qualities 
in  Franklin  which,  timidly,  tentatively,  she  had  put 
before  her,  that  his  worth  had  grown  dim  to  herself; 
this  was  the  cutting  fact  that  Althea  tried  to  edge 
away  from,  but  that  her  sincerity  forced  her  again  and 
again  to  examine.  It  was  through  Helen's  apprecia 
tion  that  she  now  saw  more  in  Franklin  than  she  had 
ever  seen  before.  If  he  was  funny  he  was  also  original, 
full  of  his  own  underivative  flavour;  if  he  was 
drab-colour,  he  was  also  beautiful.  Althea  recalled 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  229 

the  benignity  of  Helen's  eyes  as  they  dwelt  upon  him, 
her  smile,  startled,  almost  touched,  when  some  quaint, 
telling  phrase  revealed  him  suddenly  as  an  unconscious 
torch-bearer  in  a  dusky,  self-deceiving  world.  Helen 
and  Franklin  were  akin  in  that;  they  elicited,  they 
radiated  truth,  and  Althea  recalled  too,  how  their  eyes 
would  sometimes  meet  in  silence  when  they  both 
saw  the  same  truth  simultaneously.  Not  that  Helen's 
truth  was  often  Franklin's;  they  were  as  alien  as 
ever  in  their  outlook,  of  this  Althea  was  convinced; 
but  though  the  outlook  was  so  different,  the  faculty  of 
sight  was  the  same  in  both — clear,  unperturbed  and 
profoundly  independent.  They  were  neither  of  them 
dusky  or  self -deceived.  And  what  was  she?  Sitting 
in  the  drawing-room  at  Merriston  and  thinking  it  all 
over,  Althea  asked  herself  the  question  wrhile  her 
heart  sank  to  a  deeper  dejection.  Not  only  had 
she  lost  Franklin;  she  had  lost  herself.  She  embarked 
on  the  dangerous  and  often  demoralising  search  for 
a  definite,  recognisable  personality — something  to  lean 
on  with  security,  a  standard  and  a  prop.  With  grow 
ing  dismay  she  could  find  only  a  sorry  little  group  of 
shivering  hopes  and  shaken  adages.  What  was  she? 
Only  a  well-educated  nonentity  with,  for  all  coherence 
and  purpose  in  life,  a  knowledge  of  art  and  literature 
and  a  helpless  feeling  for  charm.  Poor  Althea  was  rap 
idly  sinking  to  the  nightmare  stage  of  introspection ;  she 
saw,  fitfully,  not  restoringly,  that  it  was  nightmare,  and 
dragging  herself  away  from  these  miserable  dissections, 
fixed  her  eyes  on  something  not  herself,  on  the  thing 
that,  after  all,  gave  her,  even  to  the  nightmare  vision, 
purpose  and  meaning.  If  it  were  only  that,  let  her, 


230  FKANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

at  all  events,  cling  to  it;  the  helpless  feeling  for  charm 
must  then  shape  her  path.  Gerald  was  coming,  and 
to  be  subjugated  was,  after  all,  better  than  to  dis 
integrate. 

She  drove  down  to  meet  him  in  the  little  brougham 
that  was  now  established  in  the  stables.  It  was  a  wet, 
chilly  day.  Althea,  wrapped  in  furs,  leaned  in  a  cor 
ner  and  looked  with  an  unseeing  gaze  at  the  dripping 
hedgerows  and  grey  sky.  She  fastened  herself  in  an 
ticipation  on  the  approaching  brightness.  Ah,  to  warm 
herself  at  the  light  of  his  untroubled,  unquestioning, 
unexacting  being,  to  find  herself  in  him.  If  he  would 
love  her  and  charm  her,  that,  after  all,  was  enough  to 
give  her  a  self. 

He  was  a  little  late,  and  Althea  did  not  feel  willing 
to  face  a  public  meeting  on  the  platform.  She  re 
mained  sitting  in  her  corner,  listening  for  the  sound  of 
the  approaching  train.  When  it  had  arrived,  she 
heard  Gerald's  voice  before  she  saw  him,  and  the  sound 
thrilled  through  her  deliciously.  He  was  talking  to 
a  neighbour,  and  he  paused  for  some  moments  to  chat 
with  him.  Then  his  head  appeared  at  the  window, 
little  drops  of  rain  on  his  crisp  hair,  his  eyes  smiling, 
yet,  as  she  saw  in  a  moment,  less  at  her  in  particular 
than  at  the  home-coming  of  which  she  was  a  part. 
"Yes,"  he  turned  to  the  porter  to  say,  "the  port 
manteau  outside,  the  dressing-case  in  here."  The  door 
was  opened  and  he  stepped  in  beside  her.  "Hello, 
Althea!"  He  smiled  at  her  again,  while  he  drew  a 
handful  of  silver  from  his  pocket  and  picked  out  a 
sixpence  for  the  porter,  "Here;  all  right."  The 
brougham  rolled  briskly  out  of  the  station  yard.  They 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  231 

were  in  the  long  up-hill  lanes.  "Well,  how  are  you, 
dear?"  he  asked. 

Althea  was  trembling,  but  she  was  controlling  her 
self;  she  had  all  the  pain  and  none  of  the  advantage 
of  the  impulsive,  emotional  woman;  consciousness  of 
longing  made  instinctive  appeal  impossible.  ' '  Very  well, 
thank  you, ' '  she  smiled,  as  quietly  as  he. 

"What  a  beastly  day!"  said  Gerald,  looking  out. 
"You  can't  imagine  London.  It  's  like  breathing  in 
a  wet  blanket.  The  clean  air  is  a  comfort,  at  all 
events." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Althea. 

"Old  Morty  Finch  is  coming  down  in  time  for  din 
ner,"  Gerald  went  on.  "I  met  him  on  my  way  to  the 
station  and  asked  him.  Such  a  good  fellow — you  re 
member  him?  He  won't  be  too  many,  will  he?" 

"Indeed  no." 

Gerald  leaned  back,  drew  the  rug  up  about  his  knees, 
and  folded  his  arms,  looking  at  her,  still  with  his  gen 
erally  contented  smile.  "And  your  guests  are  happy? 
You  're  enjoying  yourself?  Miss  Arlington  plays  the 
violin,  you  said.  I  'm  looking  forward  to  hearing  her 
• — and  seeing  her  again,  too;  she  is  such  a  very  pretty 
girl." 

"Isn't  she?"  said  Althea.  And  now  as  they  rolled 
on  between  the  dripping  hedges,  she  knew  that  the 
trembling  of  hope  and  fear  was  gone,  and  that  a  sudden 
misery,  like  that  of  the  earth  and  sky,  had  settled  upon 
her.  He  had  not  kissed  her.  He  did  not  even  take  her 
hand.  Oh,  why  did  he  not  kiss  her?  why  did  he  not 
know  that  she  wanted  love  and  comfort?  Only  her 
pride  controlled  the  cry. 


232  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Gerald  looked  out  of  the  window  and  seemed  to  find 
everything  very  pleasant.  "I  went  to  the  play  last 
night,"  he  said.  "Kane  took  a  party  of  us — Helen, 
Miss  Buchanan,  Lord  Compton,  and  Molly  Fanshawe. 
What  a  good  sort  he  is,  Kane ;  a  real  character. ' ' 

"You  didn't  get  at  him  at  all  in  the  summer,  did 
you?"  said  Althea,  in  her  deadened  voice. 

"No,"  said  Gerald  reflectively,  "not  at  all;  and  I 
don't  think  that  I  get  much  more  at  him  now,  you 
know;  but  I  see  more  what  's  in  him;  he  is  so  extraor 
dinarily  kind  and  he  takes  his  money  so  nicely.  And, 
0  Lord!  how  he  is  being  run  after!  He  really  has 
millions,  you  know ;  the  mothers  are  at  his  traces  trying 
to  track  him  down,  and  he  is  as  cheerful  and  as  un 
concerned  as  you  please."  Gerald  suddenly  smiled 
round  at  her  again.  "I  say,  Althea,  don't  you  regret 
him  sometimes?  It  would  have  been  a  glorious  match, 
you  know." 

Althea  felt  herself  growing  pale.  "Regret  him!" 
she  said,  and,  for  her,  almost  violently,  the  opportunity 
was  an  outlet  for  her  wretchedness;  "I  can't  conceive 
how  a  man's  money  can  make  any  difference.  I 
couldn't  have  married  Franklin  if  he  'd  been  a  king!" 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  said  Gerald,  startled;  "I  didn't 
mean  it  seriously,  of  course." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Althea,  trying  to  control  her 
labouring  breath,  "that  over  here  you  take  nothing 
quite  so  seriously  as  that — great  matches,  I  mean,  and 
money." 

Gerald  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then,  in  a  very 
courteous  voice  he  said:  "Have  I  offended  you  in  any 
way,  Althea?" 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  233 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes ;  she  turned  away  her  head  to 
hide  them.  "Yes,  you  have,"  she  said,  and  the  sound 
of  her  voice  shocked  her,  it  so  contradicted  the  crying 
out  of  her  disappointed  heart. 

But  though  Gerald  was  blind  on  occasions  that  did 
not  seem  to  him  to  warrant  any  close  attention,  he  was 
clear-sighted  on  those  that  did.  He  understood  that 
something  was  amiss;  and  though  her  exclamation  had, 
indeed,  made  him  angry  for  a  moment,  he  was  now 
sorry;  he  felt  that  she  was  unhappy,  and  he  couldn't 
bear  people  to  be  unhappy.  "I  've  done  something 
that  displeases  you,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  lean 
ing  forward  to  look  into  her  eyes,  half  pleading  and 
half  rallying  her  in  the  way  she  knew  so  well.  "Do 
forgive  me." 

She  longed  to  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  sob : 
"I  wanted  you  to  love  me";  but  that  would  have  been 
to  abase  herself  too  much;  yet  the  tears  fell  as  she 
answered,  trying  to  smile :  "It  was  only  that  you 
hurt  me;  even  in  jest  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  say 
that  I  could  have  been  so  sordid." 

He  pressed  her  hand.  "I  was  only  in  fun,  of  course. 
Please  forgive  me." 

She  knew,  with  all  his  gay  solicitude,  his  gentle  self- 
reproach,  that  she  had  angered  and  perplexed  him, 
that  she  made  him  feel  a  little  at  loss  with  her  talk 
of  sordidness,  that,  perhaps,  she  wearied  him.  And, 
seeing  this,  she  was  frightened — frightened,  and  angry 
that  she  should  be  afraid.  But  fear  predominated,  and 
she  forced  herself  to  smile  at  him  and  to  talk  with  him 
during  the  long  drive,  as  though  nothing  had  hap 
pened. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SOME  days  after  Gerald  had  gone  to  Merriston, 
Franklin  Kane  received  a  little  note  from  old 
Miss  Buchanan.  Helen,  too,  had  gone  to  the  country 
until  Monday,  as  she  had  told  Franklin  when  he 
had  asked  her  to  see  some  pictures  with  him  on  Satur 
day.  Franklin  had  felt  a  little  bereft,  especially  since, 
hoping  for  her  on  Saturday,  he  had  himself  refused 
an  invitation.  But  he  did  not  miss  that;  the  invita 
tions  that  poured  in  upon  him,  like  a  swelling  river, 
were  sources  of  cheerful  amusement  to  him.  He,  too, 
was  acquiring  his  little  ironies  and  knew  why  they 
poured  in.  It  was  not  the  big  house-party  where  he 
would  have  been  a  fish  out  of  water — even  though  in 
no  sense  a  fish  landed — that  he  missed;  he  missed 
Helen;  and  he  wouldn't  think  of  going  to  see  pictures 
without  her.  It  was,  therefore,  pleasant  to  read  Miss 
Buchanan's  hospitable  suggestion  that  he  should  drop 
in  that  afternoon  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  to  keep  an  old 
woman  company.  He  was  very  glad  indeed  to  keep 
Miss  Buchanan  company.  She  interested  him  greatly; 
he  had  not  yet  in  the  least  made  out  what  was  her 
object  in  life,  whether  she  had  gained  or  missed  it, 
and  whether,  indeed,  she  had  ever  had  one  to  gain  or 
miss.  People  who  went  thus  unpiloted  through  life 
filled  him  with  wonder  and  conjecture. 

He  found  Miss  Buchanan  as  he  had  found  her  on 

234 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  235 

the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  the  little  house  in 
Belgravia.  Her  acute  and  rugged  face  (showed  not 
much  greater  softening  for  this  now  wonted  guest — 
showed,  rather,  a  greater  acuteness;  but  any  one  who 
knew  Miss  Buchanan  would  know  from  its  expression 
that  she  liked  Franklin  Kane.  "Well,"  she  said,  as 
he  drew  his  chair  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  tea-table 
— very  cosy  it  was,  the  fire  shining  upon  them,  and 
the  canaries  trilling  intermittently — "Well,  here  we 
are,  abandoned.  We  '11  make  the  best  of  it,  won't 
we?" 

Franklin  said  that  under  the  circumstances  he 
couldn't  feel  at  all  abandoned.  "Nor  do  I,"  said  Miss 
Buchanan,  filling  the  tea-pot.  "You  and  I  get  on  very 
well  together,  I  consider."  Franklin  thought  so  too. 

"I  hope  we  may  go  on  with  it,"  said  Miss  Buchanan, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair  while  the  tea  drew.  "I  hope 
we  are  going  to  keep  you  over  here.  You  've  given 
up  any  definite  idea  of  going  back  I  suppose. ' ' 

Franklin  was  startled  by  this  confident  assurance. 
His  definite  idea  in  coming  over  had  been,  of  course, 
to  go  back  at  the  end  of  the  autumn,  unless,  indeed,  a 
certain  cherished  hope  were  fulfilled,  in  which  case 
Althea  should  have  decided  on  any  movements.  He 
had  hardly,  till  this  moment,  contemplated  his  own  in 
tentions,  and  now  that  he  did  so  he  found  that  he  had 
been  guided  by  none  that  were  definable.  It  was  not 
because  he  had  suddenly  grown  rich  and,  in  his  funny 
way,  the  fashion,  that  he  thus  stayed  on  in  London, 
working  hard,  it  is  true,  and  allowing  no  new  develop 
ments  to  interfere  with  his  work,  yet  making  no  plans 
and  setting  no  goal  before  himself.  To  live  as  he  had 


236  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

been  living  for  the  past  weeks  was,  indeed,  in  a  sense, 
to  drift.  There  was  nothing  Franklin  disapproved  of 
more  than  drifting;  therefore  he  was  startled  when 
Miss  Buchanan's  remarks  brought  him  to  this  realisa 
tion.  "Well,  upon  my  word,  Miss  Buchanan,"  he 
said,  "I  hadn't  thought  about  it.  No — of  course  not — 
of  course,  I  've  not  given  up  the  idea  of  going  back. 
I  shall  go  back  before  very  long.  But  things  have 
turned  up,  you  see.  There  is  Althea's  wedding — I  must 
be  at  that — and  there  's  Miss  Helen.  I  want  to  see  as 
much  of  her  as  I  can  before  I  go  home,  get  my  friend 
ship  firmly  established,  you  know." 

Miss  Buchanan  now  poured  out  the  tea  and  handed 
Franklin  his  cup.  "I  shouldn't  think  about  going  yet, 
then,"  she  observed.  "London  is  an  admirable  place 
for  the  sort  of  work  you  are  interested  in,  and  I  en 
tirely  sympathise  with  your  wish  to  see  as  much  as  you 
can  of  Helen. ' '  She  added,  after  a  little  pause  in  which 
Franklin,  still  further  startled  to  self-contemplation, 
wondered  whether  it  was  work,  Althea's  wedding,  or 
Helen  who  had  most  kept  him  in  London, — "I  'm 
troubled  about  Helen ;  she  's  not  looking  at  all  well ; 
hasn't  been  feeling  well  all  the  summer.  I  trace  it  to 
that  attack  of  influenza  she  had  in  Paris  when  she  met 
Miss  Jakes." 

Franklin's  thoughts  were  turned  from  himself.  He 
looked  grave.  "I  'm  afraid  she  's  delicate,"  he  said. 

"There  is  nothing  sickly  about  her,  but  she  is 
fragile,"  said  Miss  Buchanan.  "She  can't  stand  wear 
and  tear.  It  might  kill  her." 

Franklin  looked  even  graver.  The  thought  of  his 
friend  killed  by  wear  and  tear  was  inexpressibly  pain- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  237 

ful  to  him.  He  remembered — he  would  never  forget — 
the  day  in  the  woods,  Helen 's  "  I  'm  sick  to  death  of  it, ' ' 
That  Helen  had  a  secret  sorrow,  and  that  it  was  prey 
ing  upon  her  he  felt  sure,  and  there  was  pride  for  him 
in  the  thought  that  he  could  help  her  there;  he  could 
help  her  to  hide  it;  even  her  aunt  didn't  know  that  she 
was  sick  to  death  of  it.  "What  do  you  suggest  might 
be  done?"  he  now  inquired.  "Do  you  think  she  goes 
out  too  much?  Perhaps  a  rest-cure." 

"No;  I  don't  think  she  over-tires  herself;  she  doesn't 
go  out  nearly  as  much  as  she  used  to.  There  is  noth 
ing  to  cure  and  nothing  to  rest  from.  It  isn't  so  much 
now;  I  'm  here  now  to  make  things  possible  for  her. 
It  's  after  I  'm  gone.  I  'm  an  old  woman ;  I  'm  devoted 
to  my  niece,  and  I  don't  see  what  's  to  become  of  her 
when  I  'm  dead." 

If  Franklin  had  been  startled  before,  he  was  shocked 
now.  He  had  never  given  much  thought  to  the  eco 
nomic  basis  of  Helen's  life,  taking  it  for  granted  that 
though  she  would  like  more  money,  she  had,  and  always 
would  have,  quite  enough  to  live  on  happily.  The  idea 
of  an  insecure  future  for  her  had  never  entered  his 
head.  He  now  knew  that,  for  all  his  theories  of  the 
independence  of  women,  it  was  quite  intolerable  to  con 
template  an  insecure  future  for  Helen.  Some  women 
might  have  it  in  them  to  secure  themselves — she  was 
not  one  of  them.  She  was  a  flower  in  a  vase;  if  the 
vase  were  taken  away  the  flower  would  simply  lie 
where  it  fell  and  wither.  He  had  put  down  his  tea-cup 
while  Miss  Buchanan  spoke,  and  he  sat  gazing  at  her. 
"Isn't  Miss  Helen  provided  for?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  in  a  sense  she  is,"  said  Miss  Buchanan,  who, 


238  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

after  drinking  her  tea,  did  not  go  on  to  her  muffin  but 
still  leaned  back  with  folded  arms,  her  deep-set,  small 
grey  eyes  fixed  on  Franklin's  face.  "I  've  seen  to  that 
as  best  I  could ;  but  one  can 't  save  much  out  of  a  small 
annuity.  Helen,  after  my  death,  will  have  an  income 
of  £150  a  year.  It  isn't  enough.  You  have  only  to 
look  at  Helen  to  see  that  it  isn't  enough.  She  's  not 
fit  to  scrape  and  manage  on  that." 

Franklin  repeated  the  sum  thoughtfully.  "Well, 
no,  perhaps  not,"  he  half  thought,  only  half  agreed; 
"not  leading  the  kind  of  life  she  does  now.  If  she 
could  only  work  at  something  as  well;  bring  in  a  little 
more  like  that."  But  Miss  Buchanan  interrupted 
him. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  man;  what  work  is  there — work 
that  will  bring  in  money — for  a  decorative,  untrained 
idler  like  Helen?  And  what  time  would  she  have  left 
to  live  the  only  life  she  's  fit  to  lead  if  she  had  to  make 
money?  I  'm  not  worried  about  bare  life  for  Helen; 
I  'm  worried  about  what  kind  of  life  it  's  to  be.  Helen 
was  brought  up  to  be  an  idler  and  to  make  a  good  mar 
riage — like  most  girls  of  her  class — and  she  hasn  't  made 
it,  and  she  's  not  likely  to  make  it  now. ' ' 

"One  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  isn't  enough,"  said 
Franklin,  still  thoughtfully,  "for  a  decorative  idler." 

"That's  just  it,"  Miss  Buchanan  acquiesced;  and 
she  went  on  after  a  moment,  "I  'm  willing  to  call 
Helen  a  decorative  idler  if  we  are  talking  of  purely 
economic  weights  and  measures;  thank  goodness  there 
are  other  standards,  and  we  are  not  likely  to  see  them 
eliminated  from  civilised  society  for  many  a  generation. 
For  many  a  generation,  I  trust,  there  '11  be  people  in 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  239 

the  world  who  don't  earn  their  keep,  as  one  may  say, 
and  yet  are  more  worth  while  keeping  than  most  of  the 
people  who  do.  To  my  mind  Helen  is  such  a  person. 
I  'd  like  to  tell  you  a  little  about  her  life,  Mr.  Kane." 

"I  should  be  very  much  obliged  if  you  would," 
Franklin  murmured,  his  thin  little  face  taking  on  an 
expression  of  most  intense  concentration.  "It  would 
be  a  great  privilege.  You  know  what  I  feel  about  Miss 
Helen." 

"Yes;  it  's  because  I  know  what  you  feel  about  her 
that  I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Grizel.  "Not  that 
it  's  anything  startling,  or  anything  you  wouldn't  have 
supposed  for  yourself ; but  it  illustrates  my  point,!  think, 
very  well,  my  point  that  Helen  is  the  type  of  person  we 
can't  afford  to  let  go  under.  Has  Helen  ever  spoken 
to  you  about  her  mother?" 

"Never,"  said  Franklin,  his  intent  face  expressing  an 
almost  ritualistic  receptivity. 

"Well,  she  's  a  poor  creature,"  said  Miss  Buchanan, 
"a  poor,  rubbishy  creature;  the  most  selfish  and  reck 
less  woman  I  know.  I  warned  my  brother  how  it 
would  turn  out  from  the  first;  but  he  was  infatuated 
and  had  his  way,  and  a  wretched  way  it  turned  out. 
She  made  him  miserable,  and  she  made  the  children 
miserable,  and  she  nearly  ruined  him  with  her  extrava 
gance;  he  and  I  together  managed  to  put  things 
straight,  and  see  to  it  that  Nigel  should  come  into  a 
property  not  too  much  encumbered  and  that  Helen 
should  inherit  a  little  sum,  enough  to  keep  her  going — 
a  little  more  it  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  than  what  I  '11 
be  able  to  leave  her.  Well,  when  my  brother  died,  she 
was  of  age  and  she  came  into  a  modest  fortune;  for  a 


240  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

young  girl,  with  me  to  back  her  up,  it  wasn't  bad.  She 
had  hardly  seen  her  mother  for  three  years — they  'd 
always  been  at  daggers  drawn — when  one  day,  up  in 
Scotland,  when  she  was  with  her  brother — it  was  before 
Nigel  married — who  should  appear  but  Daisy.  She  had 
travelled  up  there  in  desperate  haste  to  throw  herself 
on  her  children's  mercy.  She  wras  in  terrible  straits. 
She  had  got  into  debt — cards  and  racing — and  she  was 
frightfully  involved  with  some  horror  of  a  man.  Her 
honour  was  wrecked  unless  she  could  pay  her  debts  and 
extricate  herself.  Well,  she  found  no  mercy  in  Nigel; 
he  refused  to  give  her  a  farthing.  It  was  Helen  who 
stripped  herself  of  every  penny  she  possessed  and  saved 
her.  I  don't  know  whether  she  touched  Helen's  pity, 
or  whether  it  was  mere  family  pride ;  the  thought  of  the 
horror  of  a  man  was  probably  a  strong  motive  too.  All 
Helen  ever  said  about  it  to  me  was,  "How  could  I  bear 
to  see  her  like  that?"  So,  she  ruined  herself.  Of 
course  after  that  it  was  more  than  ever  necessary  that 
she  should  marry.  I  hadn't  begun  to  save  for  her,  and 
there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  look  to.  Of  course  I 
expected  her  to  marry  at  once;  she  was  altogether  the 
most  charming  girl  of  her  day.  But  there  is  the 
trouble;  she  never  did.  She  refused  two  most  brilliant 
offers,  one  after  the  other,  and  hosts  of  minor  ones. 
There  was  some  streak  of  girlish  romance  in  her,  I  sup 
pose.  I  wish  I  could  have  been  more  on  the  spot  and 
put  on  pressure.  But  it  was  difficult  to  be  on  the  spot. 
Helen  never  told  me  about  her  offers  until  long  after; 
and  pressure  with  her  wouldn't  come  to  much.  Of 
course  I  didn't  respect  her  the  less  for  her  foolishness. 
But,  dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Miss  Buchanan,  turning 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  241 

her  eyes  on  the  fire,  "what  a  pity  it  has  all  been,  what 
a  pity  it  is,  to  see  her  wasted. ' ' 

Franklin  listened  to  this  strange  tale,  dealing  with 
matters  to  him  particularly  strange,  such  as  gambling, 
dishonoured  mothers,  horrors  of  men  and  mercenary 
marriages.  It  all  struck  him  as  very  dreadful;  it  all 
sank  into  him ;  but  it  didn  't  oppress  him  in  its  strange 
ness;  no  outside  fact,  however  dreadful,  ever  oppressed 
Franklin.  "What  did  oppress  him  was  the  thought  of 
Helen  in  it  at  all.  This  oppressed  him  very  much. 

Miss  Buchanan  continued  to  look  into  the  fire  for  a 
little  while  after  she  had  finished  her  story,  and  then, 
bringing  her  eyes  back  to  Franklin's  countenance,  she 
looked  at  him  keenly  and  steadily.  "And  now,  Mr. 
Kane,"  she  said,  "you  are  perhaps  asking  yourself  why 
I  tell  you  all  this?" 

Franklin  was  not  asking  it  at  all,  and  he  answered 
with  earnest  sincerity:  "Why,  no;  I  think  I  ought  to 
be  told.  I  want  to  be  told  everything  about  my  friends 
that  I  may  hear.  I  'm  glad  to  know  this,  because  it 
makes  me  feel  more  than  ever  what  a  fine  woman  Miss 
Helen  is,  and  I  'm  sorry,  because  she  's  wasted,  as  you 
say.  I  only  wish,"  said  Franklin,  and  the  intensity  of 
cogitation  deepened  on  his  face,  "I  only  wish  that  one 
could  think  out  some  plan  to  give  her  a  chance." 

"I  wish  one  could,"  said  Miss  Buchanan.  And  with 
out  any  change  of  voice  she  added:  "I  want  you  to 
marry  her,  Mr.  Kane. ' ' 

Franklin  sat  perfectly  still  and  turned  his  eyes  on  her 
with  no  apparent  altering  of  expression,  unless  the  ar 
rested  stillness  of  his  look  was  alteration.  His  eyes  and 
Miss  Buchanan's  plunged  deep  into  each  other's,  held 

16 


242  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

each   other's   for  a   long  time.     Then,   slowly,   deeply, 
Franklin  flushed. 

"But,  Miss  Buchanan,"  he  said,  pausing  between  his 
sentences,  for  he  did  not  see  his  way,  "I  'm  in  love  with 

another  woman — that  is "  and  for  a  longer  pause  his 

way  became  quite  invisible — "I  've  been  in  love  with 
another  woman  for  years." 

"You  mean  Miss  Jakes,"  said  Miss  Buchanan. 
"Helen  told  me  about  it.  But  does  that  interfere? 
Helen  isn't  likely  to  be  in  love  with  you  or  to  expect  you 
to  be  in  love  with  her.  And  the  woman  you  've  loved 
for  years  is  going  to  marry  some  one  else.  It  's  not  as 
if  you  had  any  hope." 

There  was  pain  for  Franklin  in  this  reasonable  speech, 
but  he  could  not  see  it  clearly  where  it  lay;  curiously, 
it  did  not  seem  to  centre  on  that  hopelessness  as  re 
garded  Althea.  He  could  see  nothing  clearly,  and  there 
was  no  time  for  self  examination.  "No,"  he  agreed. 
"No,  that  's  true.  It  's  not  as  if  I  had  any  hope." 

"I  think  Helen  worthy  of  any  man  alive,"  said  Miss 
Buchanan,  "and  yet,  under  the  strange  circumstances, 
I  know  that  what  I  'm  asking  of  you  is  an  act  of 
chivalry.  I  want  to  see  Helen  safe,  and  I  think  she 
would  be  safe  with  you." 

Franklin  flushed  still  more  deeply.  "Yes,  I  think 
she  would,"  he  said.  He  paused  then,  again,  trying  to 
think,  and  what  he  found  first  was  a  discomfort  in  the 
way  she  had  put  it.  "It  wouldn't  be  an  act  of 
chivalry,"  he  said.  "Don't  think  that.  I  care  for  Miss 
Helen  too  much  for  that.  It's  all  the  other  way  round, 
you  know.  I  mean ' ' — he  brought  out — ' '  I  don 't  believe 
she  'd  think  of  taking  me." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  243 

Miss  Grizel's  eyes  were  on  him,  and  it  may  have 
been  their  gaze  that  made  him  feel  the  discomfort.  She 
seemed  to  be  seeing  something  that  evaded  him.  "I 
don't  look  like  a  husband  for  a  decorative  idler,  do  I, 
Miss  Buchanan?"  he  tried  to  smile. 

Her  eyes,  with  their  probing  keenness,  smiled  back. 
"You  mayn't  look  like  one,  but  you  are  one,  with  your 
millions,"  she  said.  "And  I  believe  Helen  might  think 
of  taking  you.  She  has  had  plenty  of  time  to  outgrow 
youthful  dreams.  She  's  tired.  She  wants  ease  and 
security.  She  needs  a  husband,  and  she  doesn't  need  a 
lover  at  all.  She  would  get  power,  and  you  would  get 
a  charming  wife — a  woman,  moreover,  whom  you  care 
for  and  respect — as  she  does  you;  and  you  would  get  a 
home  and  children.  I  imagine  that  you  care  for  chil 
dren.  Decorative  idler  though  she  is,  Helen  would  make 
an  excellent  mother." 

"Yes,  I  care  very  much  for  children,"  Franklin  mur 
mured,  not  confused — pained,  rather,  by  this  unveiling 
of  his  inner  sanctities. 

' '  Of  course, ' '  Miss  Buchanan  went  on,  ' '  you  wouldn  't 
want  Helen  to  live  out  of  England.  Of  course  you 
would  make  generous  settlements  and  give  her  her 
proper  establishments  here.  I  want  Helen  to  be  safe; 
but  I  don't  want  safety  for  her  at  the  price  of  extinc 
tion." 

Obviously,  Franklin  could  see  that  very  clearly,  what 
ever  else  wras  dim,  he  w7as  the  vase  for  the  lovely  flower. 
That  was  his  use  and  his  supreme  significance  in  Miss 
Buchanan's  eyes.  And  the  lovely  flower  was  to  be  left 
on  its  high  stand  where  all  the  world  could  see  it ;  what 
other  use  was  there  for  it?  He  quite  saw  Miss  Bu- 


244  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  , 

chanan's  point,  and  the  strange  thing  was,  in  spite  of  all 
the  struggling  of  confused  pain  and  perplexity  in  him, 
that  here  he,  too,  was  clear;  with  no  sense  of  inner  pro 
test  he  could  make  it  his  point  too.  He  wanted  Helen 
to  stay  in  her  vase;  he  didn't  want  to  take  her  off  the 
high  stand.  He  had  not  time  now  to  seek  for  consist 
ency  with  his  principles,  his  principles  must  stretch,  that 
was  all;  they  must  stretch  far  enough  to  take  in  Helen 
and  her  stand ;  once  they  had  done  that  he  felt  that  there 
might  be  more  to  say  and  that  he  should  be  able  to  say 
it;  he  felt  sure  that  he  should  say  nothing  that  Helen 
would  not  like ;  even  if  she  disagreed,  she  would  always 
smile  at  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  wouldn't  do  for  her  to  live  any 
where  but  in  England." 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  say  to  it?"  asked  Miss  Bu 
chanan.  She  had  rather  the  manner  of  a  powerful 
chancellor  negotiating  for  the  marriage  of  a  princess. 

"Why,"  Franklin  replied,  smiling  very  gravely,  "I 
say  yes.  But  I  can 't  think  that  Miss  Helen  will. ' ' 

"Try  your  chances,"  said  Miss  Buchanan.  She 
reached  across  the  table  and  shook  his  hand.  "I  like 
you,  Mr.  Kane,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  are  a  good 
man;  and,  don't  forget,  in  spite  of  my  worldliness,  that 
if  I  weren  't  sure  of  that,  all  your  millions  wouldn  't  have 
made  me  think  of  you  for  Helen." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HELEN  returned  to  town  on  Monday  afternoon, 
and,  on  going  to  her  room,  found  two  notes  there. 
One  from  Gerald  said  that  he  was  staying  on  for  another 
week  at  Merriston,  the  other  from  Franklin  said  that  he 
would  take  his  chances  of  finding  her  in  at  5.30  that 
afternoon.  Helen  only  glanced  at  Franklin's  note  and 
then  dropped  it  into  the  fire;  at  Gerald's  she  looked 
long  and  attentively.  She  always,  familiar  as  they  were, 
studied  any  letter  of  Gerald's  that  she  received;  they 
seemed,  the  slightest  of  them,  to  have  something  of  him 
self;  the  small  crisp  writing  was  charming  to  her,  and 
the  very  way  he  had  of  affixing  his  stamps  in  not  quite 
the  same  way  that  most  people  affixed  theirs,  ridic 
ulously  endeared  even  his  envelopes.  She  turned  the 
note  over  in  her  fingers  as  she  stood  before  the  fire,  see 
ing  all  that  it  meant  to  him — how  little ! — and  all  that  it 
meant  to  her,  and  she  laid  it  for  a  moment  against  her 
cheek  before  tearing  it  across  and  putting  it,  too,  into 
the  fire.  Aunt  Grizel  was  gone  out  and  had  left  word 
that  she  would  not  be  in  till  dinner-time.  Helen  looked 
idly  at  the  clock  and  decided  that  she  would  take  a  lazy 
afternoon,  have  tea  at  home,  and  await  Franklin. 

When  he  arrived  he  found  her  reading  before  the  fire 
in  the  little  room  where  she  did  not  often  receive  him ; 
it  was  usually  in  the  drawing-room  that  they  met. 
Helen  wore  a  black  tea-gown,  transparent  and  flowing, 

245 


246  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

the  same  gown,  indeed,  remodelled  to  more  domestic 
uses,  in  which  Althea  had  first  seen  her.  She  looked 
pale  and  very  thin. 

Franklin,  too,  was  aware  of  feeling  pale;  he  thought 
that  he  had  felt  pale  ever  since  his  talk  with  Miss  Bu 
chanan  on  Saturday.  He  had  not  yet  come  to  any  de 
cision  about  the  motives  that  had  made  him  acquiesce 
in  her  proposal ;  he  only  knew  that,  whatever  they  were, 
they  were  not  those  merely  reasonable  ones  that  she  had 
put  before  him.  A  charming  wife,  a  home  and  children  ; 
these  wrere  not  enough,  and  Franklin  knew  it,  to  have 
brought  him  here  to-day  on  his  strange  errand ;  nor  was 
it  an  act  of  chivalry;  nor  was  it  pity  and  sympathy  for 
his  friend.  All  these,  no  doubt,  made  some  small  part 
of  it;  but  they  far  from  covered  the  case;  they  would 
have  left  him  as  calm  and  as  rational  as,  he  knew,  he 
looked;  but  since  he  did  not  feel  calm  and  rational  he 
knew  that  the  case  was  covered  by  very  different  mo 
tives.  What  they  were  he  could  not  clearly  see;  but 
he  felt  that  something  was  happening  to  him  and  that 
it  was  taking  him  far  out  of  his  normal  course.  Even 
his  love  for  Althea  had  not  taken  him  out  of  his  course ; 
it  had  never  been  incalculable;  it  had  been  the  ground 
he  walked  on,  the  goal  he  worked  towards;  what  was 
happening  now  was  like  a  current,  swift  and  unfathom 
able,  that  was  bearing  him  he  knew  not  where. 

Helen  smiled  at  him  and,  turning  in  her  chair  to  look 
up  at  him,  gave  him  her  hand.  "You  look  tired,"  she 
said.  "You  '11  have  some  tea?" 

"I  've  been  looking  up  some  things  at  the  British 
Museum,"  said  Franklin,  "and  I  had  a  glass  of  milk  and 
a  bun;  the  bun  was  very  satisfying,  though  I  can't  say 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  247 

that  it  was  very  satisfactory ;  I  guess  I  shan  't  want  any 
thing  else  for  some  hours  yet." 

' '  A  bun  ?  "What  made  you  have  a  bun  ? ' '  said  Helen, 
laughing. 

"Well,  it  seemed  to  go  with  the  place,  somehow,"  said 
Franklin. 

"I  can  imagine  that  it  might;  I  Ve  only  been  there 
once;  very  large  and  very  indigestible  I  found  it,  and 
most  depressing.  Yes,  I  see  that  it  might  make  a  bun 
seem  suitable." 

"Ah,  but  it  's  a  very  wonderful  place,  you  know," 
Franklin  said.  "I  should  have  expected  you  to  go 
oftener;  you  care  about  beauty." 

"Not  beauty  in  a  museum.  I  don't  like  museums. 
The  mummies  were  what  impressed  me  most,  after  the 
Elgin  marbles,  and  everything  there  seemed  like  a 
mummy — dead  and  desecrated.  Well,  what  have  you 
been  doing  besides  eating  buns  at  the  British  Museum? 
Has  London  been  working  you  very  hard  ? ' ' 

"I  Ve  not  seen  much  of  London  while  you  Ve  been 
away,"  said  Franklin,  who  had  drawn  a  chair  to  the 
other  side  of  the  fire.  "I  think  that  you  are  London  to 
me,  and  when  you  are  out  of  it  it  doesn't  seem  to  mean 
much — beyond  museums  and  work." 

"Come,  what  of  all  your  scientific  friends?" 

' '  They  don 't  mean  London ;  they  mean  science, ' '  said 
Franklin,  smiling  back  at  her.  She  always  made  him 
feel  happy,  for  himself,  and  at  ease,  even  when  he  was 
feeling  unhappy  for  her;  and  just  now  he  was  feeling 
strangely,  deeply  unhappy  for  her.  It  wasn't  humility, 
in  the  usual  sense,  that  showed  his  coming  offer  to  him 
as  so  inadequate;  he  did  not  think  of  himself  as  un- 


248  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

worthy;  but  he  did  think  of  himself  as  incongruous; 
and  that  this  fine,  sad,  subtle  creature  should  be  brought, 
from  merely  reasonable  motives,  to  taking  the  incon 
gruous  intimately  into  her  life  made  him  more  unhappy 
for  her  than  usual.  He  wished  he  wasn't  so  incongru 
ous  ;  he  wished  he  had  something  besides  friendship  and 
millions;  he  wished,  almost,  that  his  case  was  hopeless 
and  that  friendship  and  millions  would  not  gain  her. 
Yet,  under  these  wishes,  which  made  his  face  look  tired 
and  jaded,  was  another  feeling;  it  was  too  selfless  to  be 
called  a  wish;  rather  it  was  a  wonder,  deep  and  melan 
choly,  as  to  what  was  being  done  to  him,  and  what  would 
be  done,  as  an  end  of  it  all.  That  something  had  been 
done  he  knew;  it  was  because  of  Helen — that  was  one 
thing  at  last  seen  clearly — that  he  had  not,  long  ago, 
left  London. 

"Science  is  perfectly  impersonal,  perfectly  cosmopoli 
tan,  you  know,"  he  went  on.  "Now  you  are  intensely 
personal  and  intensely  local." 

"I  don't  think  of  myself  as  London,  then,  if  I  'm 
local,"  said  Helen,  her  eyes  on  the  fire.  "I  think  of 
myself  as  Scotland,  in  the  moorlands,  on  a  bleak,  grey 
day,  when  the  heather  is  over  and  there  's  a  touch  of 
winter  in  the  wind.  You  don't  know  the  real  me." 

"  I  'd  like  to, ' '  said  Franklin,  quietly  and  unemphatic- 
ally. 

They  sat  for  a  little  while  in  silence,  and  Helen,  so 
unconscious  of  what  was  approaching  her,  seemed  in  no 
haste  to  break  it.  She  was  capable  of  sitting  thus  in 
silent  musing,  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  her  eyes  on  the 
fire,  for  half  an  hour  with  Mr.  Kane  beside  her. 

Franklin  was  reflecting.    It  wouldn't  do  to  put  it  to 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  249 

her  as  her  need ;  it  must  be  put  to  her  as  his ;  as  his  rea 
sonable  need  for  the  castle,  the  princess,  the  charming 
wife,  the  home,  and  children.  And  it  must  be  that  need 
only,  the  need  of  the  dry,  matter-of-fact  friend  who 
could  give  her  a  little  and  to  whom  she  could  give  much. 
To  hint  at  other  needs — if  other  needs  there  were — 
would  not  be  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  transac 
tion,  and  would,  no  doubt,  endanger  it.  He  well  re 
membered  old  Miss  Buchanan's  hint;  it  was  as  a  hus 
band  that  Helen  might  contemplate  him,  not  as  a  lover. 
''Miss  Buchanan,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  don't  consider 
that  love,  romantic  love,  is  necessary  in  marriage,  do 
you?  I  've  gathered  more  than  once  from  remarks  of 
yours  that  that  point  of  view  is  rather  childish  to  you. ' ' 

Helen  turned  her  eyes  on  him  with  the  look  of  kindly 
scrutiny  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  She  had  felt,  in 
these  last  weeks,  that  London  might  be  having  some  un 
foreseen  effect  on  Franklin  Kane ;  she  thought  of  him  as 
very  clear  and  very  fixed,  yet  of  such  a  guilelessly  open 
nature  as  well,  that  new  experience  might  impress  too 
sharply  the  candid  tablets  of  his  mind.  She  did  not  like 
to  think  of  any  alteration  in  Franklin.  She  wanted  him 
to  remain  a  changeless  type,  tolerant  of  alteration,  but 
in  itself  inalterable.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  used  to 
think  so,"  she  said,  "for  myself,  I  mean.  And  I  hope 
that  you  will  always  think  so." 

"Why?"  asked  Franklin. 

"I  want  you  to  go  on  believing  always  in  the  things 
that  other  people  give  up — the  nice,  beautiful  things." 

"Well,  that  's  just  my  point;  can't  marriage  without 
romantic  love  be  nice  and  beautiful?" 

"Well,  can  it?"  Helen  smiled. 


250  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Franklin  appeared  conscientiously  to  ponder.  "I  've 
a  high  ideal  of  marriage,"  he  said.  "I  think  it  's  the 
happiest  state  for  men  and  women ;  celibacy  is  abnormal, 
isn  't  it  ? " 

''Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  Helen  acquiesced,  smiling  on. 

"A  mercenary  or  a  worldly  marriage  is  a  poor  thing; 
it  can't  bring  the  right  sort  of  growth,"  Franklin  went 
on.  ''I  'm  not  thinking  of  anything  sordid  or  self-seek 
ing,  except  in  the  sense  that  self-development  is  self- 
seeking.  I  'm  thinking  of  conditions  when  a  man  and 
woman,  without  romantic  love,  might  find  the  best 
chances  of  development.  Even  without  romantic  love, 
marriage  may  mean  fine  and  noble  things,  mayn't  it?  a 
home,  you  know,  and  shared,  widened  interests,  and 
children,"  said  poor  Franklin,  "and  the  mutual  help 
of  two  natures  that  understand  and  respect  each  other. ' ' 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Helen,  as  he  paused,  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  her;  "it  may  certainly  mean  all  that,  the 
more  surely  perhaps,  for  having  begun  without  ro 
mance." 

"You  agree?" 

She  smiled  now  at  his  insistence.  "Of  course  I 
agree." 

"You  think  it  might  mean  happiness?" 

"Of  course;  if  they  are  both  sensible  people  and  if 
neither  expects  romance  of  the  other;  that  's  a  very 
important  point." 

Franklin  again  paused,  his  eyes  on  hers.  With  a 
little  effort  he  now  pursued.  "You  know  of  my  ro 
mance,  Miss  Buchanan,  and  you  know  that  it  's  over, 
except  as  a  beautiful  and  sacred  memory.  You  know 
that  I  don't  intend  to  let  a  memory  warp  my  life.  It 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  251 

may  seem  sudden  to  you,  and  I  ask  your  pardon  if  it  's 
too  sudden ;  but  I  want  to  marry ;  I  want  a  home,  and 
children,  and  the  companionship  of  some  one  I  care  for 
and  respect,  very  deeply.  Therefore,  Miss  Buchanan," 
he  spoke  on,  turning  a  little  paler,  but  with  the  same 
deliberate  steadiness,  "I  ask  you  if  you  will  marry  me." 

While  Franklin  spoke,  it  had  crossed  Helen's  mind 
that  perhaps  he  had  determined  to  follow  her  sugges 
tion — buy  a  castle  and  find  a  princess  to  put  in  it;  it 
had  crossed  her  mind  that  he  might  be  going  to  ask  her 
advice  on  this  momentous  step — she  was  used  to  giving 
advice  on  such  momentous  steps;  but  when  he  brought 
out  his  final  sentence  she  was  so  astonished  that  she  rose 
from  her  chair  and  stood  before  him.  She  became  very 
white,  and,  with  the  strained  look  that  then  came  to 
them,  her  eyes  opened  widely.  And  she  gazed  down  at 
Franklin  Winslow  Kane  while,  in  three  flashes,  searing 
and  swift,  like  running  leaps  of  lightning,  three  thoughts 
traversed  her  mind:  Gerald — All  that  money — A  child. 
It  was  in  this  last  thought  that  she  seemed,  then,  to 
fall  crumblingly,  like  a  burnt-out  thing  reduced  to  pow 
der.  A  child.  What  would  it  look  like,  a  child  of  hers 
and  Franklin  Kane's?  How  spare  and  poor  and  in 
significant  were  his  face  and  form.  Could  she  love  a 
child  who  had  a  nose  like  that — a  neat,  flat,  sallow  little 
nose  ?  A  spasm,  half  of  laughter,  half  of  sobbing  caught 
her  breath. 

"I  've  startled  you,"  said  Franklin,  who  still  sat  in 
his  chair  looking  up  at  her.  "Please  forgive  me." 

A  further  thought  came  to  her  now,  one  that  she  could 
utter,  was  able  to  utter.  "I  couldn't  live  in  America. 
Yes,  you  did  startle  me.  But  I  am  much  honoured." 


252  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Thank  you,"  said  Franklin.  "I  needn't  say  how 
much  I  -should  consider  myself  honoured  if  you  would 
accept  my  proposal."  He  rose  now,  but  it  was  to  move 
a  little  further  away  from  her,  and,  taking  up  an  orna 
ment  from  the  mantelpiece,  he  examined  it  while  he 
said:  "As  for  America,  I  quite  see  that;  that  's  what 
I  was  really  thinking  of  in  what  I  was  saying  about 
London.  You  are  London,  and  it  wouldn't  do  to  take 
you  away  from  it.  I  shouldn't  think  of  taking  you 
away.  What  I  would  ask  you  to  do  would  be  to  take  me 
in.  Since  being  over  here,  this  time,  and  seeing  some  of 
the  real  life  of  the  country — what  it  's  working  towards, 
what  it  needs  and  means — and,  moreover,  taking  into 
consideration  the  character  of  my  own  work,  I  should 
feel  perfectly  justified  in  making  a  compromise  between 
my  patriotism  and  my — my  affection  for  you.  Some 
day  you  might  perhaps  find  that  you  'd  like  to  pay  us 
a  visit,  over  there ;  I  think  you  'd  find  it  interesting,  and 
it  wouldn't,  of  course,  be  my  America  that  you  'd  see, 
not  the  serious  and  unfashionable  America ;  it  would  be 
a  very  different  America  from  that  that  yon  'd  find 
waiting  to  welcome  you.  So  that  what  I  should  suggest 
— and  feel  justified  in  suggesting — would  be  that  I  spent 
three  months  alternately  in  England  and  America;  I 
should  in  that  way  get  half  a  year  of  home  life  and  half 
a  year  of  my  own  country,  and  be  able,  perhaps,  to  be 
something  of  a  link  between  the  English  and  American 
scientific  worlds.  As  for  our  life  here" — Franklin  re 
membered  old  Miss  Buchanan's  words — "you  should 
have  your  own  establishments  and,"  he  lifted  his  eyes 
to  hers,  now,  and  smiled  a  little,  "pursue  the  just  and 
the  beautiful  under  the  most  favourable  conditions." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  253 

Helen,  when  he  smiled  so  at  her,  turned  from  him  and 
sank  again  into  her  chair.  She  leaned  her  elbow  on  the 
arm  and  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  A  languor  of  great 
weariness  went  over  her,  the  languor  of  the  burnt-out 
thing  floating  in  the  air  like  a  drift  of  ashes. 

Here,  at  last,  in  her  hand,  however  strange  the  condi 
tions,  was  the  power  she  had  determined  to  live  for. 
She  could,  with  Franklin's  millions,  mould  circum 
stances  to  her  will,  and  Franklin  would  be  no  more  of  an 
odd  impediment  than  the  husbands  of  many  women  who 
married  for  money — less  of  an  impediment,  indeed,  than 
most,  for — though  it  could  only  be  for  his  money — she 
liked  him,  she  was  very  fond  of  him,  dear,  good,  and 
exquisite  little  man.  Impossible  little  man  she,  no 
doubt,  would  once  have  thought  him — impossible  as  hus 
band,  not  as  friend ;  but  so  many  millions  made  all  the 
difference  in  possibility.  Franklin  was  now  as  possi 
ble  as  any  prince,  though,  she  wondered  with  the  cold 
languor,  could  a  prince  have  a  nose  like  that? 

Franklin  was  possible,  and  it  was  in  her  hand,  the 
power,  the  high  security;  yet  she  felt  that  it  would  be 
in  weariness  rather  than  in  strength  that  the  hand  would 
close.  It  must  close,  must  it  not?  If  she  refused 
Franklin  what,  after  all,  was  left  to  her?  what  was  left 
in  herself  or  in  her  life  that  could  say  no  to  him  ?  Noth 
ing  ;  nothing  at  all,  no  hope,  no  desire,  no  faith  in  herself 
or  in  life.  If  it  came  to  that,  the  clearest  embodiment 
of  faith  and  life  she  knew  sat  opposite  to  her  waiting 
for  an  answer.  He  was  good;  she  was  fond  of  him;  he 
had  millions ;  what  could  it  be  but  yes  ?  Yet,  while  her 
mind  sank,  like  a  feather  floating  downwards  in  still  air, 
to  final,  inevitable  acquiescence,  wrhile  the  little  clock 


254  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ticked  with  a  fine,  insect-like  note,  and  the  flames  made 
a  soft  flutter  like  the  noise  of  shaken  silk,  a  blackness  of 
chaotic  suffering  rose  suddenly  in  her,  and  her  thoughts 
were  whirled  far  away.  In  flashes,  dear  and  terrible, 
she  saw  it — her  ruined  youth.  It  rose  in  dim  symbolic 
pictures,  the  moorland  where  melancholy  birds  cried  and 
circled,  where  the  rain  fell  and  the  wind  called  with  a 
passionate  cadence  among  the  hills.  To  marry  Frank 
lin  Kane — would  it  not  be  to  abandon  the  past ;  would  it 
not  be  to  desecrate  it  and  make  it  hers  no  longer  ?  Was 
not  the  solitary  moorland  better,  the  anguish  and  despair 
better  than  the  smug,  warm,  sane  life  of  purpose  and  en 
deavour?  If  she  was  too  tired,  too  indifferent,  if  she 
acquiesced,  if  she  married  Franklin  Kane,  would  she 
forget  that  the  reallest  thing  in  her  life  had  not  been 
its  sanity,  and  its  purpose,  but  its  wild,  its  secret,  its 
broken-hearted  love  ?  Surely  the  hateful  wisdom  of  the 
daily  fact  would  not  efface  the  memory  so  that,  with 
years,  she  would  come  to  smile  over  it  as  one  smiles  at 
distant  childish  griefs?  Surely  not.  Yet  the  presage 
of  it  passed  bleakly  over  her  soul.  Life  was  so  reason 
able.  And  there  it  sat  in  the  person  of  Franklin  Wins- 
low  Kane;  life,  wise,  kind,  commonplace,  and  inexor 
ably  given  to  the  fact,  to  the  present,  to  the  future  that 
the  present  built,  inexorably  oblivious  of  the  past.  Her 
tragic,  rebel  heart  cried  out  against  it,  but  her  mind 
whispered  with  a  hateful  calm  that  life  conquered 
tragedy. 

Let  it  be  so,  then.  She  faced  it.  In  the  very  fact  of 
submission  to  life  her  tragedy  would  live  on ;  the  trag 
edy — and  this  she  would  never  forget — would  be  to  feel 
it  no  longer.  She  would  be  life's  captive,  not  its  soldier, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  255 

and  she  would  keep  to  the  end  the  captive 's  bitter  heart. 
She  knew,  as  she  put  down  her  hand  at  last  and  looked  at 
Franklin  Kane,  that  it  was  to  be  acquiescence,  unless  he 
could  not  accept  her  terms.  She  was  ready,  ironically, 
wearily  ready  for  life ;  but  it  must  be  on  her  own  terms. 
There  must  be  no  loophole  for  misunderstanding  between 
her  and  her  friend — if  she  were  to  marry  him.  Only  by 
the  clearest  recognition  of  what  she  owed  him  could  her 
pride  be  kept  intact;  and  she  owed  him  cold,  cruel  can 
dour.  "Do  you  understand,  I  wonder,"  she  said  to  him, 
and  in  a  voice  that  he  had  never  heard  from  her  before, 
the  voice,  he  knew,  of  the  real  self,  ' '  how  different  I  am 
from  what  you  think  a  human  being  should  be?  Do 
you  realise  that,  if  I  marry  you,  it  will  be  because  you 
have  money — because  you  have  a  great  deal  of  money — 
and  only  for  that  ?  I  like  you,  I  respect  you ;  I  would 
be  a  loyal  wife  to  you,  but  if  you  weren  't  rich — and  very 
rich — I  should  not  think  of  marrying  you." 

Franklin  received  this  information  with  an  unmoved 
visage,  and  after  a  pause  in  which  they  contemplated 
each  other  deeply,  he  replied:  "All  right." 

"That  isn't  all,"  said  Helen.  "You  are  very  good — 
an  idealist.  You  think  me — even  in  this  frankness  of 
mine — far  nicer  than  I  am.  I  have  no  ideals — none  at 
all.  I  want  to  be  independent  and  to  have  power  to 
do  what  I  please.  As  for  justice  and  beauty — it  's  too 
kind  of  you  to  remember  so  accurately  some  careless 
words  of  mine." 

Franklin  remained  unperturbed,  unless  the  quality  of 
intent  and  thoughtful  pity  in  his  face  were  perturbation. 
"You  don't  know  how  nice  you  are,"  he  remarked,  "and 
that  's  the  nicest  thing  about  you.  You  are  the  honest- 


256  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

est  woman  I  Ve  met,  and  you  seem  to  me  about  the  most 
unhappy.  I  guessed  that.  Well,  we  won't  talk  about 
unhappiness,  will  we?  I  don't  believe  that  talking 
about  it  does  much  good.  If  you  '11  marry  me,  we  '11  see 
if  we  can't  live  it  down  somehow.  As  for  ideals,  I  '11 
trust  you  in  doing  what  you  like  with  your  money ;  it 
will  be  yours,  you  know.  I  shall  make  half  my  property 
over  to  you  for  good ;  then  if  I  disapprove  of  what  you 
do  with  it,  you  '11  at  all  events  be  free  to  go  on  pleasing 
yourself  and  displeasing  me.  I  won 't  be  able  to  prevent 
you  by  force  from  doing  what  I  think  wrong  any  more 
than  you  will  me.  You  '11  take  your  own  responsibility, 
and  I  '11  take  mine.  And  I  don't  believe  we  shall  quar 
rel  much  about  it,"  said  Franklin,  smiling  at  her. 

Tears  rose  to  Helen's  eyes.  Franklin  Kane,  since  she 
had  become  his  friend,  often  touched  her;  something  in 
him  now  smote  upon  her  heart;  it  was  so  gentle,  so 
beautiful,  and  so  sad. 

"My  dear  friend,"  she  said,  "you  will  be  marrying  a 
hard,  a  selfish,  and  a  broken-hearted  woman  who  will 
bring  you  nothing." 

"All  right,"  said  Franklin  again. 

"I  won't  do  you  any  good." 

"You  won't  do  me  any  harm." 

"You  want  me  to  marry  you,  even  if  I  'm  not  to  do 
you  any  good?" 

He  nodded,  looking  brightly  and  intently  at  her. 

She  rose  now  and  stood  beside  him.  With  all  the 
strange  new  sense  of  unity  between  them  there  was  a 
stronger  sense  of  formality,  and  that  seemed  best  ex 
pressed  by  their  clasp  of  hands  over  what,  apparently, 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  257 

was  an  agreement.  "You  understand,  you  are  sure  you 
understand,"  said  Helen. 

"What  I  want  to  understand  is  that  you  are  going 
to  marry  me,"  said  Franklin. 

"I  will  marry  you,"  Helen  said. 

And  now,  rather  breathlessly,  as  if  after  a  race  hardly 
won,  Franklin  answered:  "Well,  I  guess  you  can  leave 
the  rest  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ERALD  had  decided  to  stay  on  for  another  week 
at  Merriston  and  to  come  up  to  town  with 
Althea,  and  she  fancied  that  the  reason  for  his  decision 
was  that  he  found  Sally  Arlington  such  very  good  com 
pany.  Sally  played  the  violin  exceedingly  well  and 
looked  like  an  exceedingly  lovely  muse  while  she  played, 
and  Gerald,  who  was  very  fond  of  music,  also  expressed 
more  than  once  to  Althea  his  admiration  of  Miss 
Arlington's  appearance.  There  was  nothing  in  Gerald's 
demeanour  towards  Sally  to  arouse  a  hint  of  jealousy; 
at  least  there  would  not  have  been  had  Althea  been  his 
wife.  But  she  was  not  yet  his  wife,  and  he  treated 
her — this  was  the  fact  that  the  week  was  driving  home 
— as  though  she  were,  and  as  though  with  wifely  toler 
ance  she  perfectly  understood  his  admiring  pretty 
young  women  who  looked  like  muses  and  played  the 
violin.  She  was  not  yet  his  wife;  this  was  the  fact, 
she  repeated  it  over  her  hidden  misery,  that  Gerald  did 
not  enough  realise.  She  was  not  his  wife,  and  she  did 
not  like  to  see  him  admiring  other  young  women  and 
behaving  towards  herself  as  though  she  were  a  com 
prehending  and  devoted  spouse,  who  found  pleasure  in 
providing  them  for  his  delectation.  She  knew  that  she 
could  trust  Gerald,  that  not  for  a  moment  would  he 
permit  himself  a  flirtation,  and  not  for  a  moment  fail 
to  discriminate  between  admiration  of  the  newcomer 

258 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  259 

and  devotion  to  herself;  yet  that  the  admiration  had 
been  sufficient  to  keep  him  on  at  Merriston,  while  the 
devotion  took  for  granted  the  right  to  all  sorts  of 
marital  neglects,  was  the  fact  that  rankled.  It  did 
more  than  rankle ;  it  burned  with  all  the  other  burnings. 
Althea  had,  at  all  events,  been  dragged  from  her  mood 
of  introspection.  She  had  lost  the  sense  of  nonentity. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  passionate,  protesting  self  that 
cried  out  for  justice.  Who  was  Gerald,  after  all,  to 
take  things  so  for  granted  ?  "Why  should  he  be  so  sure  of 
her?  He  was  not  her  husband.  She  wras  his  betrothed, 
not  his  wife,  and  more,  much  more  was  due  to  a 
betrothed  than  he  seemed  to  imagine.  It  was  not  so 
that  another  man  wrould  have  treated  her;  it  was  not 
so  that  Franklin  would  have  handled  his  good  fortune. 
Her  heart,  bereft  and  starving,  cried  out  for  Franklin 
and  for  the  love  that  had  never  failed,  even  while, 
under  and  above  everything,  was  her  love  for  Gerald, 
and  the  cold  fear  lest  he  should  guess  what  was  in  her 
heart,  should  be  angry  writh  her  and  turn  away.  It  was 
this  fear  that  gave  her  self-mastery.  She  acted  the  part 
that  Gerald  took  for  granted;  she  was  the  tolerant,  de 
voted  wrife.  Yet  even  so  she  guessed  that  Gerald  had 
still  his  instinct  of  something  amiss.  He,  too,  with  all 
his  grace,  all  his  deference  and  sweetness,  was  guarded. 
And  once  or  twice  when  they  were  alone  together  an 
embarrassed  silence  had  fallen  between  them. 

Mrs.  Peel  and  Sally  left  on  Saturday,  and  on  Satur 
day  afternoon  Miss  Harriet  Robinson  was  to  arrive  from 
Paris,  to  spend  the  Sunday,  to  travel  up  to  town  with 
Althea  and  Gerald  on  Monday,  and  to  remain  there  with 
Althea  until  her  marriage.  Saturday  morning,  there- 


260  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

fore,  after  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Peel  and  Sally,  would 
be  empty,  and  when  she  and  Gerald  met,  just  before 
the  rather  bustled  breakfast,  Althea  suggested  to  him 
that  a  walk  together  when  her  guests  were  gone  would 
be  nice,  and  Gerald  had  genially  acquiesced.  A  little 
packet  of  letters  lay  beside  Gerald's  plate  and  a  larger 
one  by  Althea 's,  hers  mainly  from  America  as  she 
saw,  fat,  friendly  letters,  bearing  the  Boston  post-mark ; 
a  thin  note  from  Franklin  in  London  also,  fixing  some 
festivity  for  the  coming  week  no  doubt;  but  Sally  and 
Mrs.  Peel  engaged  her  attention  and  she  postponed  the 
reading  until  after  they  were  gone.  She  observed,  how 
ever,  in  Gerald's  demeanour  during  the  meal,  a  curious 
irritability  and  preoccupation.  He  ate  next  to  noth 
ing,  drank  his  cup  of  coffee  with  an  air  of  unconscious 
ness,  and  got  up  and  strolled  away  at  the  first  op 
portunity,  not  reappearing  until  Mrs.  Peel  and  Sally 
were  making  their  farewells  in  the  hall.  He  and  Althea 
stood  to  see  them  drive  off,  and  then,  since  she  was 
ready  for  the  walk,  they  went  out  together. 

It  was  a  damp  day,  but  without  rain.  A  white  fog 
hung  closely  and  thickly  over  the  country,  and  lay  like 
a  clogging,  woollen  substance  among  the  scattered  gold 
and  russets  of  the  now  almost  leafless  trees. 

Gerald  walked  beside  Althea  in  silence,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  Althea,  too,  was  silent,  and  in  her  breast 
was  an  oppression  like  that  of  the  day — a  dense,  dull, 
clogging  fear.  They  had  walked  for  quite  ten  minutes, 
and  had  left  the  avenue  and  were  upon  the  high  road 
when  Gerald  said  suddenly,  "I  've  had  some  news  this 
morning. ' ' 

It  was  a  relief  to  hear  that  there  was  some  cause  for 


261 

his  silence  unconnected  with  her  own  inadequacy.  But 
anger  rose  with  the  relief;  it  must  be  some  serious  cause 
to  excuse  him. 

"Have  you?  It  's  not  bad,  I  hope,"  she  said,  hoping 
that  it  was. 

"Bad?  No;  I  don't  suppose  it  's  bad.  It  's  very 
odd,  though,"  said  Gerald.  He  then  put  his  hand  in 
his  breast-pocket  and  drew  out  a  letter.  Althea  saw 
that  the  writing  on  the  envelope  was  Helen's.  "You 
may  read  it,"  said  Gerald. 

The  relief  was  now  merged  in  something  else. 
Althea 's  heart  seemed  standing  still.  It  began  to  thump 
heavily  as  she  opened  the  letter  and  read  what 
Helen  wrote: 

"DEAR  GERALD, — I  have  some  surprising  news  for 
you ;  but  I  hardly  think  that  you  will  be  more  surprised 
than  I  was.  I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Kane.  I  ac 
cepted  him  some  days  ago,  but  have  been  getting  used 
to  the  idea  since  then,  and  you  are  the  first  person, 
after  Aunt  Grizel,  who  knows.  It  will  be  announced 
next  week  and  we  shall  probably  be  married  very  soon 
after  you  and  Althea.  I  hope  that  both  our  ventures 
will  bring  us  much  happiness.  The  more  I  see  of  Mr. 
Kane,  the  more  I  realise  how  fortunate  I  am. — Yours 
affectionately,  HELEN.  ' ' 

Althea  gazed  at  these  words.  Then  she  turned  her 
eyes  and  gazed  at  Gerald,  who  was  not  looking  at  her 
but  straight  before  him.  Her  first  clear  thought  was 
that  if  he  had  received  a  shock  it  could  not  be  com 
parable  to  that  which  she  now  felt.  It  could  not  be 


262  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

that  the  letter  had  fallen  on  his  heart  like  a  sword, 
severing  it.  Althea's  heart  seemed  cleft  in  twain. 
Gerald — Franklin — it  seemed  to  pulse,  horribly  divided 
and  horribly  bleeding.  Looking  still  at  Gerald's  face, 
pallid,  absorbed,  far  from  any  thought  of  her,  anger 
surged  up  in  her,  and  not  now  against  Gerald  only, 
but  against  Franklin,  who  had  failed  her,  against  Helen, 
who,  it  seemed,  did  not  win  love,  yet  won  something 
that  took  people  to  her  and  bound  them  to  her.  Then 
she  remembered  her  unread  letters  and  remembered  that 
Franklin  could  not  have  let  this  news  come  to  her 
from  another  than  himself.  She  drew  out  his  letter  and 
read  it.  It,  too,  was  short. 

"DEAREST  ALTHEA, — I  know  how  glad  you  '11  be  to 
hear  that  happiness,  though  of  a  different  sort,  has  come 
to  me.  Any  sort  of  happiness  was,  for  so  many  years, 
connected  with  you,  dear  Althea,  that  it  's  very  strange 
to  me  to  realise  that  there  can  be  another  happiness; 
though  this  one  is  connected  with  you,  too,  and  that 
makes  me  gladder.  Helen,  your  dear  friend,  has  con 
sented  to  marry  me,  and  the  fact  of  her  being  your 
dear  friend  makes  her  even  dearer  to  me.  So  that  I 
must  thank  you  for  your  part  in  this  wonderful  new 
opening  in  my  life,  as  well  as  for  all  the  other  lovely 
things  you  Ve  always  meant  to  me. — Your  friend, 

' '  FRANKLIN.  ' ' 

Althea's  hand  dropped.  She  stared  before  her.  She 
did  not  offer  the  letter  to  Gerald.  "It  's  incredible," 
she  said,  while,  in  the  heavy  mist,  they  walked  along  the 
road. 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  263 

Gerald  still  said  nothing.  He  held  his  head  high",  and 
gazed  before  him  too,  as  if  intent  on  difficult  and 
evasive  thoughts. 

"I  could  not  have  believed  it  of  Helen,"  said  Althea 
after  a  little  pause. 

At  this  he  started  and  looked  round  at  her.  "Be 
lieved?  What?  What  is  that  you  say?"  His  voice 
was  sharp,  as  though  she  had  struck  him  on  the  raw. 

Althea  steadied  her  own  voice;  she  wished  to  strike 
him  on  the  raw,  and  accurately;  she  could  only  do 
that  by  hiding  from  him  her  own  great  dismay.  "I 
could  not  have  believed  that  Helen  would  marry  a  man 
merely  for  his  money. ' '  She  did  not  believe  that  Helen 
was  to  marry  Franklin  merely  for  his  money.  If  only 
she  could  have  believed  it;  but  the  bleeding  heart 
throbbed:  "Lost — lost — lost."  It  was  not  money  that 
Helen  had  seen  and  accepted;  it  was  something  that 
she  herself  had  been  too  blind  and  weak  to  see.  In 
Helen's  discovery  she  helplessly  partook.  He  was  of 
value,  then.  He,  whom  she  had  not  found  good  enough 
for  her,  was  good  enough  for  Helen.  And  this  man 
— this  affianced  husband  of  hers — ah,  his  value  she  well 
knew;  she  was  not  blind  to  it — that  was  the  sickening 
knowledge;  she  knew  his  value  and  it  was  not  hers, 
not  her  possession,  as  Franklin's  love  and  all  that 
Franklin  had  been.  Gerald  possessed  her;  she  seemed 
to  have  no  part  in  him;  how  little,  his  next  words 
showed. 

' '  What  right  have  you  to  say  she  's  taking  him  merely 
for  his  money?"  Gerald  demanded  in  his  terse,  vibrant 
voice. 

Ah,,  how  he  made  her  suffer  with  his  hateful  uncon- 


264  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

sciousness  of  her  pain — the  male  unconsciousness  that 
rouses  woman's  conscious  cruelty. 

"I  know  Helen.  She  has  always  been  quite  frank 
about  her  mercenary  ideas.  She  always  told  me  she 
would  marry  a  man  for  his  money." 

"Then  why  do  you  say  it  's  incredible  that  she  is 
going  to  ? " 

Why,  indeed?  but  Althea  held  her  lash.  "I  did  not 
believe,  even  of  her,  that  she  would  marry  a  man  she 
considered  so  completely  insignificant,  so  completely 
negligible — a  man  she  described  to  me  as  a  funny  little 
man.  There  are  limits,  even  to  Helen's  insensitiveness, 
I  should  have  imagined. ' ' 

She  had  discovered  the  raw.  Gerald  was  breathing 
hard. 

"That  must  have  been  at  first — when  she  didn't 
know  him.  They  became  great  friends;  everybody  saw 
that  Helen  had  become  very  fond  of  him ;  I  never  knew 
her  to  be  so  fond  of  anybody.  You  are  merely  angry  be 
cause  a  man  who  used  to  be  in  love  with  you  has  fallen 
in  love  with  another  woman." 

So  he,  too,  could  lash.  "How  dare  you,  Gerald!" 
she  said. 

At  her  voice  he  paused,  and  there,  in  the  wet  road, 
they  stood  and  looked  at  each  other. 

What  Althea  then  saw  in  his  face  plunged  her  into 
the  nightmare  abyss  of  nothingness.  What  had  she 
left?  He  did  not  love  her — he  did  not  even  care  for 
her.  She  had  lost  the  real  love,  and  this  brightness 
that  she  clung  to  darkened  for  her.  He  looked  at  her, 
steadily,  gloomily,  ashamed  of  what  she  had  made  him 
say,  yet  too  sunken  in  his  own  pain,  too  indifferent  to 


265 

hers,  to  unsay  it.  And  in  her  dispossession  she  did  not 
dare  make  manifest  the  severance  that  she  saw.  He  did 
not  care  for  her,  but  she  could  not  tell  him  so;  she 
could  not  tell  him  to  go.  With  horrid  sickness  of  heart 
she  made  a  feint  that  hid  her  knowledge. 

"What  you  say  is  not  true.  Franklin  does  not  love 
her.  I  know  him  through  and  through.  I  am  the  great 
love  of  his  life;  even  in  his  letter  to  me,  here,  he  tells 
me  that  I  am." 

"Well,  since  you  've  thrown  him  over,  he  can  console 
himself,  I  hope." 

"You  do  not  understand,  Gerald.  I  am  disappointed 
— in  both  my  friends.  It  is  an  ugly  thing  that  has  hap 
pened.  You  feel  it  so;  and  so  do  I." 

He  turned  and  began  to  walk  on  again.  And  still  it 
lay  with  her  to  speak  the  words  that  would  make  truth 
manifest.  She  could  not  utter  them;  she  could  not, 
now,  think.  All  that  she  knew  was  the  dense,  suffocat 
ing  fear. 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  put  her  hands  on  her  heart, 
then  covered  her  eyes.  "I  am  ill;  I  feel  very  ill,"  she 
said.  It  was  true.  She  did  feel  very  ill.  She  went  to 
the  bank  at  the  side  of  the  road  and  sank  down  on  it. 
Gerald  had  supported  her;  she  had  dimly  been  aware 
of  the  bitter  joy  of  feeling  his  arm  around  her,  and  the 
joy  of  it  slid  away  like  a  snake,  leaving  poison  behind. 
He  stood  above  her,  alarmed  and  pitying. 

"Althea — shall  I  go  and  get  some  one?  I  am  so 
awfully  sorry — so  frightfully  sorry,"  he  repeated. 

She  shook  her  head,  sitting  there,  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  And  in  her  great 
weakness  an  unbelievable  thing  had  happened  to  her. 


266  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

She  began  to  cry  piteously,  and  she  sobbed:  "0 
Gerald — don't  be  unkind  to  me!  don't  be  cruel!  don't 
hurt  me!  0  Gerald — love  me — please  love  me!"  The 
barriers  of  her  pride,  of  her  thought,  were  down,  and, 
like  the  flowing  of  blood  from  an  open  wound,  the  truth 
gushed  forth. 

For  a  moment  Gerald  was  absolutely  silent.  It  was  a 
tense,  a  stricken  silence,  and  she  felt  in  it  something 
of  the  horror  that  the  showing  of  a  fatal  wound  might 
give.  Then  he  knelt  beside  her;  he  took  her  hand;  he 
put  his  arm  around  her.  "Althea,  what  a  brute — what 
a  brute  I  've  been.  Forgive  me. ' '  It  was  for  something 
else  than  his  harsh  words  that  he  was  asking  her  for 
giveness.  He  passed  hurriedly  from  that  further,  that 

inevitable  hurt.  "I  can't  tell  you  how I  mean 

I  'm  so  completely  sorry.  You  see,  I  was  so  taken  aback 
— so  cut  up,  you  know.  I  could  think  of  nothing  else. 
She  is  such  an  old  friend — my  nearest  friend.  I  never 
imagined  her  marrying,  somehow;  it  was  like  hearing 
that  she  was  going  away  for  ever.  And  what  you  said 
made  me  angry."  Even  he,  with  all  his  compunction, 
could  but  come  back  to  the  truth. 

And,  helpless,  she  could  but  lean  on  his  pity,  his  sheer 
human  pity. 

"I  know.  He  was  my  nearest  friend  too.  For  all 
my  life  I  've  been  first  with  him.  I  was  cut  up  too. 
I  am  sorry — I  spoke  so. ' ' 

"Poor  girl — poor  dear.  Here,  take  my  arm.  Here. 
Now,  you  do  feel  better. ' ' 

She  was  on  her  feet,  her  hand  drawn  through  his 
arm,  her  face  turned  from  him  and  still  bathed  in 
tears. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  267 

They  walked  back  slowly  along  the  road.  They  were 
silent.  From  time  to  time  she  knew  that  he  looked 
at  her  with  solicitude;  but  she  could  not  return  his 
look.  The  memory  of  her  own  words  was  with  her,  a 
strange,  new,  menacing  fact  in  life.  She  had  said  them, 
and  they  had  altered  everything.  Henceforth  she  de 
pended  on  his  pity,  on  his  loyalty,  on  his  sense  of  duty 
to  a  task  undertaken.  Their  bond  was  recognised  as 
an  unequal  one.  Once  or  twice,  in  the  dull  chaos  of 
her  mind,  a  flicker  of  pride  rose  up.  Could  she  not 
emulate  Helen.  Helen  was  to  marry  a  man  who  did 
not  love  her.  Helen  was  to  marry  rationally,  with  open 
eyes,  a  man  who  was  her  friend.  But  Helen  did  not 
love  the  man  who  did  not  love  her.  She  was  not  his 
thrall.  She  gained,  she  did  not  lose,  her  freedom. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  "WEEK  was  gone  since  Helen  had  given  her  con 
sent  to  Franklin,  and  again  she  was  in  her  little 
sitting-room  and  again  waiting,  though  not  for  Frank 
lin.  Franklin  had  been  with  her  all  the  morning;  and 
he  had  been  constantly  with  her  through  the  week,  and 
she  had  found  the  closer  companionship,  until  to-day, 
strangely  easy.  Franklin's  very  lacks  endeared  him  to 
her.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  any  one  so  devoid  of  any 
glamour,  of  any  adventitious  aid  from  nature,  who  yet 
so  beamed.  This  beaming  quality  was,  for  Helen,  his 
chief  characteristic.  There  was  certainly  no  brilliancy 
in  Franklin's  light;  it  was  hardly  a  ray  and  it  emitted 
never  a  sparkle;  but  it  was  a  mild,  diffused  effulgence, 
and  she  always  felt  more  peaceful  and  restored  for 
coming  within  its  radius. 

It  had  wrapped  her  around  all  the  week,  and  it  had 
remained  so  unchanged  that  their  relation,  too,  had 
seemed  unchanged  and  her  friend  only  a  little  nearer, 
a  little  more  solicitous.  They  had  gone  about  together; 
they  had  taken  walks  in  the  parks ;  they  had  made  plans 
while  strolling  beside  the  banks  of  the  Serpentine  or 
leaning  on  the  bridge  in  St.  James's  Park,  to  watch  the 
ducks  being  fed.  Already  she  and  Franklin  and  the 
deeply  triumphant  Aunt  Grizel  had  gone  on  a  journey 
down  to  the  country  to  look  at  a  beautiful  old  house 
in  order  to  see  if  it  would  do  as  one  of  Helen's  "estab- 

268 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  269 

lishments. ' '  Already  Franklin  had  brought  her  a  milky 
string  of  perfect  pearls  saying  mildly,  as  he  had  said  of 
the  box  of  sweets,  "I  don't  approve  of  them,  but  I  hope 
you  do."  And  on  her  finger  was  Franklin's  ring,  a 
noble  emerald  that  they  had  selected  together. 

Helen  had  been  pleased  to  feel  in  herself  a  capacity 
for  satisfaction  in  these  possessions,  actual  and  potential. 
She  liked  to  look  at  the  great  blot  of  green  on  her 
hand  and  to  see  the  string  of  pearls  sliding  to  her 
waist.  She  liked  to  ponder  on  the  Jacobean  house  with 
its  splendid  rise  of  park  and  fall  of  sward.  She  didn't 
at  all  dislike  it,  either,  when  Franklin,  as  calmly  pos 
sessed  as  ever  with  a  clear  sense  of  his  duties,  discussed 
with  her  the  larger  and  more  impersonal  uses  of  their 
fortune.  She  found  that  she  had  ideas  for  him  there; 
that  the  thinking  and  active  self,  so  long  inert,  could 
be  roused  to  very  good  purpose;  that  it  was  interesting, 
and  very  interesting,  to  plan,  with  millions  at  one's 
disposal,  for  the  furtherance  of  the  just  and  the  beauti 
ful.  And  she  found,  too,  in  spite  of  her  warnings  to 
Franklin,  that  though  she  might  be  a  hard,  a  selfish, 
and  a  broken-hearted  woman,  she  was  a  woman  with  a 
very  definite  idea  of  her  own  responsibilities.  It  did  not 
suit  her  at  all  to  be  the  mere  passive  receiver ;  it  did  not 
suit  her  to  be  greedy.  She  turned  her  mind  at  once, 
carefully  and  consistently,  to  Franklin's  interests. 
She  found  atoms  and  kinetics  rather  confusing  at  first, 
but  Franklin's  delighted  and  deliberate  elucidations 
made  a  light  for  her  that  promised  by  degrees  to  illum 
inate  these  dark  subjects.  Yes;  already  life  had  taken 
hold  of  her  and,  ironically,  yet  not  unwillingly,  she 
followed  it  along  the  appointed  path.  Yesterday,  how- 


'270  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ever,  and  especially  to-day,  a  complication,  subtle  yet 
emphatic,  had  stolen  upon  her  consciousness. 

All  the  week  long,  in  spite  of  something  mastered 
and  controlled  in  his  bearing,  she  had  seen  that  he  was 
happy,  and  though  not  imaginative  as  to  Franklin's 
past,  she  had  guessed  that  he  had  never  in  all  his  life 
been  so  happy,  and  that  never  had  life  so  taken  hold 
of  him.  He  enjoyed  the  pearls,  he  enjoyed  the  emerald, 
he  enjoyed  the  Jacobean  house  and  going  over  it  with 
her  and  Aunt  Grizel;  above  all  he  enjoyed  herself  as  a 
thinking  and  acting  being,  the  turning  of  her  attention 
to  atoms,  her  grave,  steady  penetration  of  his  life.  And 
in  this  happiness  the  something  controlled  and  mastered 
had  melted  more  and  more;  she  had  intended  that  it 
should  melt.  She  had  guessed  at  the  pain,  the  anxiety 
for  her  that  had  underlain  the  dear  little  man's  im 
perturbability  and  she  had  determined  that  as  far  as 
in  her  lay  Franklin  should  think  her  happy,  should 
think  that,  at  all  events,  she  was  serene  and  without 
qualms  or  misgivings.  And  she  had  accomplished  this. 
It  was  as  if  she  saw  him  breathing  more  deeply,  more 
easily;  as  if,  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  he  smiled  at 
her  and  said,  with  a  new  accent  of  confidence:  "All 
right. ' '  And  then,  after  the  sigh  of  relief,  she  saw  that 
he  became  too  happy.  It  was  only  yesterday  that  she 
began  to  see  it;  it  was  to-day  that  she  had  clearly  seen 
that  Franklin  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 

It  wasn't  that,  in  any  blindness  to  what  she  meant, 
he  came  nearer  and  made  mistakes.  He  did  not  come 
a  step  nearer,  and,  in  his  happiness,  his  unconscious  hap 
piness,  he  was  further  from  the  possibility  of  mistakes 
than  before.  He  did  not  draw  near.  He  stood  and 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  271 

gazed.  Men  had  loved  Helen  before,  yet,  she  felt  it,  no 
man  had  loved  her  as  Franklin  did.  She  could  not  have 
analysed  the  difference  between  his  love  and  that  of 
other  men,  yet  she  felt  it  dimly.  Franklin  stood  and 
gazed ;  but  it  was  not  at  charm  or  beauty  that  he  gazed ; 
whether  he  was  really  deeply  aware  of  them  she  could 
not  tell;  the  only  words  she  could  find  with  which  to 
express  her  predicament  and  its  cause  sounded  silly 
to  her,  but  she  could  find  no  others.  Franklin  was 
gazing  at  her  soul.  She  couldn't  imagine  what  he 
found  to  fix  him  in  it;  he  had  certainly  said  that  she 
was  the  honestest  woman  he  had  known;  she  gloomily 
made  out  that  she  was,  she  supposed,  "straight";  she 
liked  clear,  firm  things,  and  she  liked  to  keep  a  bargain. 
It  didn  't  seem  to  her  a  very  arresting  array  of  virtues ; 
but  then — no,  she  couldn't  settle  Franklin's  case  so 
glibly  as  that ;  if  it  wasn  't  what  she  might  have  of  charm 
that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with,  it  wasn't  what  she  might 
have  of  virtue  either.  Perhaps  one's  soul  hadn't  much 
to  do  with  either  charm  or  virtue.  And,  after  all,  what 
ever  it  was,  he  was  gazing  at  it,  rapt,  smiling,  grave, 
in  the  lover's  trance.  He  saw  her,  and  only  her.  And 
she  saw  him,  and  a  great  many  other  things  besides. 

The  immediate  hope  that  came  to  her  was  that  Frank 
lin,  perhaps,  might  really  never  know  just  what  had  hap 
pened  to  him.  If  he  never  recognised  it,  it  might  never 
become  explicit ;  it  might  be  managed ;  it  could  of  course 
be  managed  in  any  case;  but  how  she  should  hate  hav 
ing  him  made  conscious  of  pain.  If  he  never  said  to 
himself,  and  far  less  to  her,  that  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  he  might  not  really  suffer  in  the  strange,  ill- 
adjusted  union  before  them.  She  did  not  think  that  he 


272  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

had  yet  said  it  to  himself;  but  she  feared  that  he  was 
hovering  on  the  verge  of  self-recognition.  His  very 
guilelessness  in  the  realm  of  the  emotions  exposed  him  to 
her,  and  with  her  perplexity  went  a  yearning  of  pity 
as  she  witnessed  the  soft,  the  hesitant,  the  delicate  un 
folding. 

For  more  had  come  than  the  tranced  gaze.  That 
morning,  writing  notes,  with  Franklin  beside  her,  her 
hand  had  inadvertently  touched  his  once  or  twice  in 
taking  the  papers  from  him,  and  Helen  then  had  seen 
that  Franklin  blushed.  Twice,  also,  looking  up,  she 
had  found  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  the  lover's  dwelling 
tenderness,  and  both  times  he  had  quickly  averted  his 
glance  in  a  manner  very  new  in  him. 

Helen  had  pondered  deeply  in  the  moments  before 
his  departure.  Franklin  had  never  kissed  her;  the 
time  would  come  when  he  must  kiss  her.  The  time 
would  come  when  a  kiss  of  farewell  or  greeting  must, 
however  rare,  be  a  facile,  marital  custom.  How  would 
Franklin — trembling  on  that  verge  of  a  self-recognition 
that  might  make  a  chaos  of  his  life — how  and  when 
would  he  initiate  that  custom?  How  could  it  be 
initiated  by  him  at  all  unless  with  an  emotion  that  would 
not  only  reveal  him  to  himself,  but  make  it  known  to 
him  that  he  was  revealed  to  her.  The  revelation,  if 
it  came,  must  come  gradually ;  they  must  both  have  time 
to  get  used  to  it,  she  to  having  a  husband  she  did  not 
love  in  love  with  her;  he  to  loving  a  wife  who  would 
never  love  him  back.  She  shrank  from  the  thought  of 
emotional  revelations.  It  was  her  part  to  initiate  and 
to  make  a  kiss  an  easy  thing.  Yet  she  found,  sitting 
there,  writing  the  last  notes,  with  Franklin  beside  her, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  273 

that  it  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  contemplate.  The 
thought  of  her  own  cowardice  spurred  her  on.  "When 
Franklin  rose  at  last,  gave  her  his  hand,  said  that  he  'd 
come  back  that  evening,  Helen  rose  too,  resolved. 
"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "Don't  forget  the  tickets  for 
that  concert." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Franklin. 

"And  I  think,  don't  you?  that  we  might  put  the 
announcement  in  the  papers  to-morrow.     Aunt  Grizel 
wants,  I  am  sure,  to  see  me  safely  Morning  Posted." 
"So  do  I,"  smiled  Franklin. 

Helen  was  summoning  her  courage.  "Good-bye," 
she  repeated,  and  now  she  smiled  with  a  new  sweetness. 
"I  think  we  ought  to  kiss  each  other  good-bye,  don't 
you?  We  are  such  an  old  engaged  couple." 

Resolved,  and  firm  in  her  resolve,  though  knowing 
commotion  of  soul,  she  leaned  to  him  and  kissed  his 
forehead  and  turned  her  cheek  to  him.  Franklin  had 
kept  her  hand,  and  in  the  pause,  where  she  did  not  see 
his  face,  she  felt  his  tighten  on  it ;  but  he  did  not  kiss 
her.  Smiling  a  little  nervously,  she  raised  her  head 
and  looked  at  him.  He  was  gazing  at  her  with  a 
shaken,  stricken  look. 

"You  must  kiss  me  good-bye,"  said  Helen,  speaking 
as  she  wrould  have  spoken  to  a  departing  child.  "Why, 
we  have  no  right  to  be  put  in  the  Morning  Post  unless 
we  've  given  each  other  a  kiss." 

And,  really  like  the  child,  Franklin  said:  "Must 
I?" 

He  kissed  her  then,  gently,  and  spoke  no  further 
word.  But  she  knew,  when  he  had  gone,  and  when 
thinking  over  the  meaning  of  his  face  as  it  only  came 


274 

to  her  when  the  daze  of  her  own  daring  faded  and  left 
her  able  to  think,  that  she  had  hardly  helped  Franklin 
over  a  difficulty;  she  had  made  him  aware  of  it  rather; 
she  had  shown  him  what  his  task  must  be.  And  it 
could  not  reassure  her,  for  Franklin,  that  his  face,  after 
that  stricken  moment,  and  with  a  wonderful  swiftness 
of  delicacy,  had  promised  her  that  it  should  be  ac 
complished.  It  promised  her  that  there  should  be  no 
emotions,  or,  if  there  were,  that  they  should  be  mastered 
ones;  it  promised  her  that  she  should  see  nothing  in 
him  to  make  her  feel  that  she  was  refusing  anything, 
nothing  to  make  her  feel  that  she  was  giving  pain  by 
a  refusal.  It  seemed  to  say  that  he  knew,  now,  at  last, 
what  the  burden  was  that  he  laid  upon  her  and  that 
it  should  be  as  light  as  he  could  make  it.  It  did  not 
show  her  that  he  saw  his  own  burden;  but  Helen  saw 
it  for  him.  She  too,  made  herself  promises,  as  she 
stood  after  his  departure,  taking  a  long  breath  over 
her  discovery;  she  was  not  afraid  in  looking  forward. 
All  that  she  was  afraid  of — and  it  was  of  this  that  she 
was  thinking  as  she  now  stood  leaning  her  arm  upon 
the  mantelshelf  and  looking  into  the  fire, — all  that  she 
was  afraid  of  was  of  looking  back.  It  was  for  Gerald 
that  she  was  waiting  and  it  was  Gerald's  note  that 
hung  from  her  hand  against  her  knee,  and  since  that 
note  had  come,  not  long  after  Franklin  had  left  her, 
her  thoughts  had  been  centred  on  the  coming  interview. 
Gerald  had  not  written  to  her  from  the  country;  she 
had  expected  to  have  an  answer  to  her  announcement 
that  morning,  but  none  had  come.  This  note  had  been 
brought  by  hand,  and  it  said  that  if  he  could  not  find  her 
at  four  would  she  kindly  name  some  other  hour  when 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  275 

he  might  do  so.     She  had  answered  that  he  would  find 
her,  and  it  was  now  five  minutes  to  the  hour. 

Gerald's  note  had  not  said  much  more,  and  yet,  in 
the  little  it  did  say,  it  had  contrived  to  be  tense  and 
cool.  It  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  reserved  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  her,  and  that,  perhaps  more,  he  reserved 
a  great  deal  to  think  and  not  to  say.  It  was  a  note  that 
had  startled  her  and  that  then  had  filled  her  with  a 
bitterness  of  heart  greater  than  any  she  had  ever  known. 
For  that  she  would  not  accept,  not  that  tone  from 
Gerald.  That  it  should  be  Gerald — Gerald  of  all  the 
people  in  the  world — to  adopt  that  tone  to  her!  The 
exceeding  irony  of  it  brought  a  laugh  to  her  lips.  She 
was  on  edge.  Her  strength  had  only  just  taken  her 
through  the  morning  and  its  revelations,  there  was  none 
left  now  for  patience  and  evasion.  Gerald  must  be 
careful,  was  the  thought  that  followed  the  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SHE  heard  the  door-bell  ring,   and  then  his  quick 
step.     It  did  not  seem  to  her  this  afternoon  that 
she  had  to  master  the  disquiet  of  heart  that  his  coming 
always  brought.     It  was  something  steeled  and  hostile 
that  waited  for  him. 

When  he  had  entered  and  stood  before  her  she  saw 
that  he  intended  to  be  careful,  to  be  very  careful,  and 
the  recognition  of  that  attitude  in  him  gave  further 
bitterness  to  her  cold,  her  fierce  revolt.  What  right 
had  he  to  that  bright  formal  smile,  that  chill  pressure 
of  her  fingers,  that  air  of  crisp  cheerfulness,  as  of  one 
injured  but  willing,  magnanimously,  to  conceal  his  hurt. 
What  right — good  heavens ! — had  Gerald  to  feel  injured. 
She  almost  laughed  again  as  she  looked  at  him  and 
at  this  unveiling  of  his  sublime  self-centredness.  He 
expected  to  find  his  world  just  as  he  would  have  it, 
his  cushion  at  his  head  and  his  footstool  at  his  feet, 
the  wife  in  her  place  fulfilling  her  comely  duties,  the 
spinster  friend  in  hers,  administering  balms  and  coun 
sels;  the  wife  at  Merriston  House,  and  the  spinster 
friend  in  the  little  sitting-room  where,  for  so  many 
years,  he  had  come  to  her  with  all  his  moods  and  mis 
fortunes.  She  felt  that  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  on 
him  with  a  cold  menace  as  he  stood  there  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fire  and,  putting  his  foot  on  the  fender, 

276 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  277 

looked  first  at  her  and  then  down  at  the  flames.  His 
very  silence  was  full  of  the  sense  of  injury;  but  she 
knew  that  hers  was  the  compelling  silence  and  that  she 
could  force  him  to  be  the  first  to  speak.  And  so  it  was 
that  presently  he  said : 

"Well,  Helen,  this  is  great  news." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  she  answered.  "It  has  been  a  year 
of  news,  hasn't  it?" 

He  stared,  courteously  blank,  and  something  in  her 
was  pleased  to  observe  that  he  looked  silly  with  his 
affectation  of  blandness. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"You  had  your  great  event,  and  I,  now,  have  mine." 

"Ah  yes,  I  see." 

"It  's  all  rather  queer  when  one  comes  to  think  of 
it,"  said  Helen.  "Althea,  my  new  friend — whom  I  told 
you  of  here,  only  a  few  months  ago — and  her  friend. 
How  important  they  have  become  to  us,  and  how  little, 
last  summer,  we  could  have  dreamed  of  it."  She,  too, 
was  speaking  artificially,  and  was  aware  of  it;  but  she 
was  well  aware  that  Gerald  didn't  find  that  she  looked 
silly.  She  had  every  advantage  over  the  friend  who 
came  with  his  pretended  calm  and  his  badly  hidden 
rancour.  And  since  he  stood  silent,  looking  at  the 
fire,  she  added,  mildly  and  cheerfully:  "I  am  so  glad 
for  your  happiness,  Gerald,  and  I  hope  that  you  are  glad 
for  mine." 

He  looked  up  at  her  now,  and  she  could  not  read  the 
look;  it  hid  something — or  else  it  sought  for  something 
hidden;  and  in  its  oddity — which  reminded  her  of  a 
blind  animal  dazedly  seeking  its  path — it  so  nearly 
touched  her  that,  with  a  revulsion  from  any  hint  of 


278  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

weakening  pity  for  him,  it  made  her  bitterness  against 
him  greater  than  before. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can't  say  I  'm  glad,  Helen,"  he  re 
plied.  "I  'm  too  amazed,  still,  to  feel  anything  ex 
cept" — he  seemed  to  grope  for  a  word  and  then  to  give 
it  up — "amazement." 

"I  was  surprised  myself,"  said  Helen.  "I  had  not 
much  hope  left  of  anything  so  fortunate  happening  to 
me." 

"You  feel  it,  then,  so  fortunate?" 

"Don't  you  think  that  it  is — to  marry  millions," 
Helen  asked,  smiling,  "and  to  have  found  such  a  good 
man  to  care  for  me  ? " 

"I  think  it  is  he  who  is  fortunate,"  said  Gerald,  after 
a  moment. 

"Thank  you;  perhaps  we  both  are  fortunate." 

Once  more  there  was  a  long  silence  and  then,  sud 
denly,  Gerald  flung  away,  thrusting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  stopping  before  the  window,  his  back  turned 
to  her.  "I  can't  stand  this,"  he  declared. 

"What  can't  you  stand?" 

"You  don't  love  this  man.     He  doesn't  love  you." 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  asked  Helen. 

* '  I  can 't  think  it  of  you ;  I  can 't  bear  to  think  it. ' ' 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  she  repeated,  in  a  deadened 
voice. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  took  her  up  with  con 
trolled  fury.  "How  couldn't  it  but  be  a  great  deal  to 
me?  Haven't  you  been  a  great  deal — for  all  our  lives 
nearly?  Do  you  mean  that  you  're  going  to  kick  me 
out  completely — because  you  are  going  to  marry? 
What  does  it  mean  to  me?  I  wish  it  could  mean  some- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  279 

thing  to  you  of  what  it  does  to  me.  To  give  yourself 
• — you — you — to  a  man  who  doesn't  love  you — whom 
you  don't  love — for  money.  Oh,  I  know  we  've  always 
talked  of  that  sort  of  thing  as  if  it  were  possible — and 
perhaps  it  is — for  a  man.  But  when  it  comes  to  a 
woman — a  woman  one  has  cared  for — looked  up  to — 
as  I  have  to  you — it  's  a  different  matter.  One  expects 
a  different  standard. ' ' 

"What  standard  do  you  expect  from  me?"  asked 
Helen.  There  were  tears,  hut  tears  of  rage,  in  her 
voice. 

"You  know,"  said  Gerald,  who  also  was  struggling 
with  an  emotion  that,  rising,  overcame  his  control, 
"you  know  what  I  think  of  you — what  I  expect  of  you. 
A  great  match — a  great  man — something  fitting  for  you 
• — one  could  accept  that;  but  this  little  American 
nonentity,  this  little  American — barely  a  gentleman — 
whom  you  'd  never  have  looked  at  if  he  hadn't  money 
— a  man  who  will  make  you  ridiculous,  a  man  who 
can't  have  a  thought  or  feeling  in  common  with  you — 
it  's  not  fit — it  's  not  worthy;  it  smirches  you;  it  's  de 
basing." 

He  had  not  turned  to  look  at  her  while  he  spoke, 
perhaps  did  not  dare  to  look.  He  knew  that  his  anger, 
his  more  than  anger,  had  no  warrant,  and  that  the 
words  in  which  it  cloaked  itself — though  he  believed  in 
all  he  said — were  unjustifiable.  But  it  was  more  than 
anger,  and  it  must  speak,  must  plead,  must  protest. 
He  had  no  right  to  say  these  things,  perhaps,  but  Helen 
should  understand  the  more  beneath,  should  understand 
that  he  was  lost,  bewildered,  miserable;  if  Helen  did 
not  understand,  what  was  to  become  of  him.  And  now 


280  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

she  stood  there  behind  him,  not  speaking,  not  answer 
ing  him,  so  that  he  was  almost  frightened  and  mur 
mured  on,  half  inaudibly:  "It  's  a  wrong  you  do — to 
me — to  our  friendship,  as  well  as  to  yourself." 

Helen  now  spoke,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  arrested 
his  attention  even  before  the  meaning  of  her  words 
reached  him.  It  was  a  tone  that  he  had  never  heard 
from  her,  and  it  was  not  so  much  that  it  made  him  feel 
that  he  had  lost  her  as  that  it  made  him  feel — strangely 
and  penetratingly — that  he  had  never  known  her. 

"You  say  all  this  to  me,  Gerald,  you  who  in  all  these 
years  have  never  taken  the  trouble  to  wonder  or  think 
about  me  at  all — except  how  I  might  amuse  you  or 
advise  you,  or  help  you."  These  were  Helen's  words. 
"Why  should  I  go  on  considering  you,  who  have  never 
considered  me?" 

It  was  so  sudden,  so  amazing,  and  so  cruel  that,  turn 
ing  to  her,  he  literally  stared,  open-eyed  and  open- 
mouthed.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Helen,"  he 
said. 

' '  Of  course  you  don 't, ' '  she  continued  in  her  measured 
voice,  "of  course  you  don't  know  what  I  mean;  you 
never  have.  I  don't  blame  you;  you  are  not  imagina 
tive,  and  all  my  life  I  've  taken  care  that  you  should 
know  very  little  of  what  I  meant.  The  only  bit  of  me 
that  you  Ve  known  has  been  the  bit  that  has  always  been 
at  your  service.  There  is  a  good  deal  more  of  me  than 
that." 

"But — what  have  you  meant?"  he  stammered,  almost 
in  tears. 

Her  face,  white  and  cold,  was  bent  on  him,  and  in  her 
little  pause  she  seemed  to  deliberate — not  on  what  he 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  281 

should  be  told,  that  was  fixed — but  on  how  to  tell  it; 
and  for  this  she  found  finally  short  and  simple  words. 

' 'Can't  you  guess,  even  now,  when  at  last  I  've  be 
come  desperate  and  indifferent,"  she  said.  " Can't  you 
see,  even  now,  that  I  've  always  loved  you." 

They  confronted  each  other  in  a  long  moment  of 
revelation  and  avowal.  It  grew  like  a  great  distance 
between  them,  the  distance  of  all  the  years  through 
which  she  had  suffered  and  he  been  blind.  Gerald  saw 
it  like  a  chasm,  dark  with  time,  with  secrecy,  with  his 
intolerable  stupidity.  He  gazed  at  her  across  it,  and 
in  her  face,  her  strange,  strong,  fragile,  weary  face,  he 
saw  it  all,  at  last.  Yes,  she  had  loved  him  all  her  life ; 
and  he  had  never  seen  it. 

She  had  moved,  in  speaking  to  him,  away  from  her 
place  near  the  fire,  and  he  now  went  to  it,  and  put 
his  arms  on  the  mantelpiece  and  hid  his  face  upon  them. 
' '  Fool — fool  that  I  am ! "  he  muttered  softly.  He  stood 
so,  his  face  hidden  from  her,  and  his  words  seemed  to 
release  some  bond  in  Helen's  heart.  The  worst  of  the 
bitterness  against  him  passed  away.  The  tragedy,  after 
all,  was  not  his  fault,  but  Fate's,  and  to  suggest  that 
he  was  accountable  was  to  be  grotesquely  stupid.  That 
he  had  not  loved  her  was  the  tragedy ;  that  he  had  never 
seen  was,  in  reality,  the  tragedy's  alleviation.  Absurd 
to  blame  poor  Gerald  for  not  seeing.  "When  she  spoke 
again  it  was  in  an  altered  voice. 

"No,  you  're  not,"  she  said,  and  she  seemed  with  him 
to  contemplate  the  chasm  and  to  make  it  clear  for  him 
— she  had  always  made  things  clear  for  him,  and  there 
was  now,  with  all  the  melancholy,  a  peacefulness  in 
sharing  with  him  this,  their  last,  situation.  Never  be- 


282  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

fore  had  they  talked  over  one  so  strange,  and  never 
again  would  they  talk  over  any  other  so  near;  to  speak 
at  last  was  to  make  it,  in  its  very  nearness,  immeasur 
ably  remote,  to  put  it  away,  from  both  their  lives,  for 
ever.  "No  you  're  not;  I  shouldn't  have  said  that  you 
were  not  imaginative;  I  shouldn't  have  said  that  you 
had  never  considered  me ;  you  have — you  have  been  the 
best  of  friends;  I  was  letting  myself  be  cruel.  It  's 
only  that  I  'm  not  a  fool.  A  woman  who  isn  't  can 
always  keep  a  man  from  imagining;  it  's  the  one  thing 
that  even  a  stupid  woman  can  do.  And  my  whole  nature 
has  been  moulded  by  the  instinct  for  concealment." 
She  looked  round  mechanically  for  a  seat  while  she 
spoke ;  she  felt  horribly  tired ;  and  she  sank  on  a  straight, 
high  chair  near  the  writing-table.  Here,  leaning  for 
ward,  her  arms  resting  on  her  knees,  her  hands  clasped 
and  hanging,  she  went  on,  looking  before  her.  "I  want 
to  tell  you  about  it  now.  There  are  things  to  confess. 
I  haven't  been  a  nice  woman  in  it  all;  I  've  not  taken 
it  as  a  nice  woman  would.  I  've  hated  you  for  not 
loving  me.  I  've  hated  you  for  not  wanting  anything 
more  from  me  and  for  your  contentment  with  what  I 
gave  you,  and  for  caring  as  much  as  you  did,  too,  for 
being  fonder  of  me  than  of  any  one  else  in  the  world, 
and  yet  never  caring  more.  Of  course  I  understood ;  it 
was  a  little  comfort  to  my  pride  to  understand.  Even 
if  I  'd  been  the  sort  of  woman  you  would  have  fallen 
in  love  with,  I  was  too  near.  I  had  to  make  myself  too 
near ;  that  was  my  shield.  I  had  to  give  you  everything 
you  wanted  because  that  was  the  sure  way  to  hide  from 
you  that  I  had  so  much  more  to  give.  And  for  years 
I  went  on  hoping — not  that  you  would  see — I  should 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  283 

have  lost  everything  then — but  that,  of  yourself,  you 
would  want  more." 

Gerald  had  lifted  his  head,  but  his  hand  still  hid  his 
eyes.  "Helen,  dear  Helen,"  he  said,  and  she  did  not 
understand  his  voice — it  was  pain,  but  more  than  pain; 
"why  were  you  so  cruel?  why  were  you  so  proud?  If 
you  'd  only  let  me  see;  if  you  'd  only  given  me  a  hint. 
Don't  you  know  it  only  needed  that?" 

She  paused  over  his  question  for  so  long  that  he  put 
down  his  hand  and  looked  at  her,  and  her  eyes,  meeting 
his  unfalteringly,  widened  with  a  strained,  suffering 
look. 

"It  's  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  she  said.  "And  I  know 
you  believe  it  now;  you  are  so  fond  of  me,  and  so  sorry 
for  this  horrid  tale  I  inflict  on  you,  that  you  have  to 
believe  it.  And  of  course  it  may  be  true.  Perhaps  it 
did  only  need  that." 

They  had  both  looked  away  again,  Gerald  gazing  un- 
seeingly  into  the  mirror,  Helen  at  the  opposite  wall. 
' '  It  may  be  true, ' '  she  repeated.  ' '  I  had  only,  perhaps, 
to  be  instinctive — to  withdraw — to  hide — create  the  lit 
tle  mysteries  that  appeal  to  men's  senses  and  imagina 
tions.  I  had  only  to  put  aside  my  pride  and  to  shut  my 
eyes  on  my  horrible,  hard,  lucid  self-consciousness,  let 
instinct  guide  me,  be  a  mere  woman,  and  you  might  have 
been  in  love  with  me.  It  's  true.  I  used  often  to  think 
it,  too.  I  used  often  to  think  that  I  might  make  you  fall 
in  love  with  me  if  I  could  stop  being  your  friend.  But, 
don't  you  see,  I  knew  myself  far  too  well.  I  was  too 
proud.  I  didn't  want  you  if  you  only  wanted  me  be 
cause  I  'd  lured  you  and  appealed  to  your  senses 
and  imagination.  I  didn't  want  you  unless  you  wanted 


284  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

me  for  the  big  and  not  for  the  little  things  of  love.  I 
couldn't  pretend  that  I  had  something  to  hide — I  know 
perfectly  how  it  is  done — the  air  of  evasion,  of  wistful- 
ness — all  the  innocent  hypocrisies  women  make  use  of; 
but  I  couldn  't.  I  didn  't  want  you  like  that.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  look  straight  at  you  and  pretend, 
not  that  there  was  anything  to  hide,  but  that  there  was 
nothing. ' ' 

Again,  his  eyes  meeting  hers,  she  looked,  indeed, 
straight  at  him  and  smiled  a  little;  for  there  was,  in 
deed,  nothing  now  to  hide;  and  she  went  on  quietly, 
"You  see  now,  how  I  've  been  feeling  for  these  last 
months,  when  everything  has  gone,  at  last,  completely. 
I  'd  determined,  long  ago,  to  give  up  hope  and  marry 
some  one  else.  But  I  didn't  know  till  this  autumn, 
when  you  decided  to  marry  Althea,  I  didn't  know  till 
then  how  much  hope  there  was  still  left  to  be  killed. 
When  a  thing  like  that  has  been  killed,  you  see,  one 
hasn't  much  feeling  left  for  the  rest  of  life.  I  don't 
care  enough,  one  way  or  the  other,  not  to  marry  as  I  'm 
doing.  There  is  still  one's  life  to  live,  and  one  may  as 
well  make  what  seems  the  best  of  it.  I  've  not  suc 
ceeded,  you  see,  in  marrying  your  great  man,  and  I  've 
fallen  back  very  thankfully  on  my  dear,  good  Franklin, 
who  is  not,  let  me  tell  you,  a  nonentity  in  my  eyes ;  I  'm 
fonder  of  him  than  of  any  one  I  've  ever  known  except 
yourself.  And  it  was  too  much,  just  the  one  touch  too 
much,  to  have  you  come  to  me  to-day  with  reproaches 
and  an  air  of  injury.  But,  at  the  same  time,  I  ask  your 
pardon  for  having  spoken  to  you  like  that — as  though 
you  'd  done  me  a  wrong.  And  if  I  Ve  been  too  cruel, 
if  the  memory  rankles  and  makes  you  uncomfortable, 


FKANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  285 

you  must  keep  away  from  me  as  long  as  you  like.  It 
won't  be  for  ever,  I  'm  sure.  In  spite  of  everything 
I  'm  sure  that  we  shall  always  be  friends." 

She  got  up  now,  knowing  in  her  exhaustion  that  she 
was  near  tears,  and  she  found  her  cigarette-case  on  the 
writing-table;  it  was  an  automatic  relapse  to  the  cus 
tomary.  She  felt  that  everything,  indeed,  was  over, 
and  that  the  sooner  one  relapsed  on  everyday  trivialities 
the  better. 

Gerald  watched  her  light  the  cigarette,  the  pulsing 
little  flicker  of  yellow  flame  illuminating  her  cheek  and 
hair  as  she  stood  half  turned  from  him.  She  was  near 
him  and  he  had  but  one  step  to  take  to  her.  He  was 
almost  unaware  of  motive.  What  he  did  was  nearly 
as  automatic,  as  inevitable,  as  her  search  for  the  ciga 
rette.  He  was  beside  her  and  he  put  his  arms  around 
her  and  took  the  cigarette  from  her  hand.  Then,  fold 
ing  her  to  him,  he  hid  his  face  against  her  hair. 

It  was,  then,  not  excitement  he  felt  so  much  as  the 
envelopment  of  a  great,  a  beautiful  necessity.  So  great, 
so  beautiful,  in  its  peace  and  accomplishment,  that  it 
was  as  if  he  had  stood  there  holding  Helen  for  an 
eternity,  and  as  if  all  the  miserable  years  that  had  sep 
arated  them  were  looked  down  at  serenely  from  some  far 
height. 

And  Helen  had  stood  absolutely  still.  When  she 
spoke  he  heard  in  her  voice  an  amazement  too  great  for 
anger.  It  was  almost  gentle  in  its  astonishment.  ' '  Ger 
ald,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  in  need  of  consolation." 

Foolish  Helen,  he  thought,  breathing  quietly  in  the 
warm  dusk  of  her  hair;  foolish  dear  one,  to  speak  from 
that  realm  of  abolished  time. 


286  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"  I  'm  not  consoling  you, ' '  he  said. 

She  was  again  silent  for  a  moment  and  he  felt  that 
her  heart  was  throbbing  hard;  its  shocks  went  through 
him.  "Let  me  go,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  hair,  holding  her  closer. 

Helen,  starting  violently,  thrust  him  away  with  all 
her  strength,  and  though  blissfully  aware  only  of  his 
own  interpretation,  Gerald  half  released  her,  keeping 
her  only  by  his  clasp  of  her  wrists. 

His  kiss  had  confirmed  her  incredible  suspicion. 
"You  insult  me!"  she  said.  "And  after  what  I  told 
you!  What  intolerable  assumption!  What  intolerable 
arrogance !  What  baseness ! ' ' 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  burn  their  eyelids;  her  face  was 
transformed  in  its  wild,  blanched  indignation. 

"But  I  love  you,"  said  Gerald,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  candour  of  conviction  too  deep  for  pleading. 

"You  love  me!"  Helen  repeated.  She  could  have 
wept  for  sheer  fury  and  humiliation  had  not  her  scorn 
ful  concentration  on  him  been  too  intent  to  admit  the 
flooding  image  of  herself — mocked  and  abased  by  this 
travesty — which  might  have  brought  the  tears.  "I 
think  that  you  are  mad." 

"But  I  do  love  you,"  Gerald  reiterated.  "I  've  been 
mad,  if  you  like ;  but  I  'in  quite  sane  now. ' ' 

"You  are  a  simpleton,"  was  Helen's  reply;  she  could 
find  no  other  word  for  his  fatuity. 

"Be  as  cruel  as  you  like;  I  know  I  deserve  it,"  said 
Gerald. 

"You  imagine  I  'm  punishing  you?" 

"I  don't  imagine  anything,  or  see  anything,  Helen, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  287 

except  that  we  love  each  other  and  that  you  've  got  to 
marry  me." 

Helen  looked  deeply  into  his  eyes,  deeply,  and,  he  saw 
it  at  last,  implacably.  "If  your  last  chance  hadn't  been 
gone  can  you  believe  that  I  would  ever  have  told  you? 
Your  last  chance  is  gone.  I  will  never  marry  you." 
And,  hearing  steps  outside,  she  twisted  her  hands  from 
his,  saying,  "Think  of  appearances,  please.  Here  is 
Franklin." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

GERALD  was  standing  at  the  window  looking  out 
when  Franklin  entered,  and  Helen,  in  the  place 
where  he  had  left  her,  met  the  gaze  of  her  affianced  with 
a  firm  and  sombre  look.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence 
while  Franklin  stood  near  the  door,  turning  a  hesitant 
glance  from  Gerald's  back  to  Helen's  face,  and  then 
Helen  said,  "Gerald  and  I  have  been  quarrelling." 

Franklin,  feeling  his  way,  tried  to  smile.  "Well, 
that  's  too  bad,"  he  said.  He  looked  at  her  for  another 
silent  moment  before  adding,  "Do  you  want  to  go  on? 
Am  I  in  the  way?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  go  on,  and  you  are  very  wel 
come,  ' '  Helen  answered.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Frank 
lin  and  she  wondered  at  her  own  self-command,  for,  in 
his  eyes,  so  troubled  and  so  kindly,  she  seemed  to  see 
mutual  memories;  the  memory  of  herself  lying  in  the 
wood  and  saying  "I  'm  sick  to  death  of  it";  the  mem 
ory  of  herself  standing  here  and  saying  to  him  "I  'm  a 
broken-hearted  woman."  And  she  knew  that  Franklin 
was  seeing  in  her  face  the  same  memories,  and  that,  with 
his  intuitive  insight  where  things  of  the  heart  were  con 
cerned,  he  was  linking  them  with  the  silent  figure  at  the 
window. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  going  to  the  fire  and  standing 
before  it,  his  back  to  the  others,  "I  suppose  I  can't  help 
to  elucidate  things  a  little." 

288 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  289 

"No,  I  think  they  are  quite  clear,"  said  Helen,  "or, 
at  all  events,  you  put  an  end  to  them  by  staying;  espe 
cially" — and  she  fixed  her  gaze  on  the  figure  at  the  win 
dow — "as  Gerald  is  going  now." 

But  Gerald  did  not  move  and  Franklin  presently  re 
marked,  "Sometimes,  you  know,  a  third  person  can  see 
things  in  another  way  and  help  things  out.  If  you 
could  just,  for  instance,  talk  the  matter  over  quietly, 
before  me,  as  a  sort  of  adviser,  you  know.  That  might 
help.  It  's  a  pity  for  old  friends  to  quarrel." 

Gerald  turned  from  the  window  at  this.  He  had  come 
down  from  the  heights  and  knew  that  he  had  risen  there 
too  lightly,  and  that  the  tangles  of  lower  realities  must 
be  unravelled  before  he  could  be  free  to  mount  again — 
Helen  with  him.  He  knew,  at  last,  that  he  had  made 
Helen  very  angry  and  that  it  might  take  some  time  to 
disentangle  things ;  but  the  radiance  of  the  heights  was 
with  him  still,  and  if,  to  Helen's  eye,  he  looked  fatuous, 
to  Franklin,  seeing  his  face  now,  for  the  first  time,  he 
looked  radiant. 

' '  Helen, ' '  he  said,  smiling  gravely  at  her,  ' '  what  Kane 
says  is  very  sensible.  He  is  the  one  person  in  the  world 
one  could  have  such  things  out  before.  Let  's  have 
them  out;  let  's  put  the  case  to  him  and  he  shall  be 
umpire. ' ' 

Helen  bent  her  ironic  and  implacable  gaze  upon  him 
and  remained  silent. 

' '  You  think  I  've  no  right  to  put  it  before  him,  I  sup 
pose." 

"You  most  certainly  have  no  right.     And  you  would 
gain  nothing  by  it.     What  I  told  you  just  now  was 
true." 
19 


290  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW,  KANE 

"I  can't  accept  that." 

"Then  you  are  absurd." 

"Very  well,  I  am  absurd,  then.  But  there  's  one  thing 
I  have  a  right  to  tell  Kane,"  Gerald  went  on,  unsmil 
ing  now.  "I  owe  it  to  him  to  tell  him.  He  '11  think 
badly  of  me,  I  know ;  but  that  can 't  be  helped.  We  've 
all  got  into  a  dreadful  muddle  and  the  only  way  out 
of  it  is  to  be  frank.  So  I  must  tell  you,  Kane,  that 
Althea  and  I  have  found  out  that  we  have  made  a  mis 
take  ;  we  can 't  hit  it  off.  I  'm  not  the  man  to  make  her 
happy  and  she  feels  it,  I  'm  sure  she  feels  it.  It  's  only 
for  my  sake,  I  know,  that  she  hasn't  broken  off  long  ago. 
You  are  in  love  with  Althea,  and  I  am  in  love  with 
Helen;  so  there  it  is.  I  'm  only  saying  what  we  are 
all  seeing. ' '  Gerald  spoke  gravely,  yet  at  the  same  time 
with  a  certain  blitheness,  as  though  he  took  it  for 
granted,  for  Franklin  as  well  as  for  himself,  that  he  thus 
made  both  their  paths  clear  and  left  any  hazardous  ele 
ment  in  their  situations  the  same  for  both.  Would  Al 
thea  have  Franklin  and  would  Helen  have  him?  This 
was  really  all  that  now  needed  elucidation. 

A  heavy  silence  followed  his  words.  In  the  silence 
the  impression  that  came  to  Gerald  was  as  if  one  threw 
reconnoitering  pebbles  into  a  well,  expecting  a  swift  re 
sponse  of  shallowness,  and  heard  instead,  after  a  won 
dering  pause,  the  hollow  reverberations  of  sombre,  un 
dreamed-of  depths.  Franklin's  eyes  were  on  him  and 
Helen's  eyes  were  on  him,  and  he  knew  that  in  both  their 
eyes  he  had  proved  himself  once  more,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  absurd. 

"Mr.  Digby,"  said  Franklin  Kane,  and  his  voice  was 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  291 

so  strange  that  it  sounded  indeed  like  the  fall  of  the 
stone  in  the  far-off  darkness,  "perhaps  you  are  saying 
what  we  all  see;  but  perhaps  we  don't  all  see  the  same 
things  in  the  same  way;  perhaps,"  Franklin  went  on, 
finding  his  way,  "you  don't  even  see  some  things  at 
all." 

Gerald  had  flushed.  "I  know  I  'm  behaving  cad- 
dishly.  I  've  no  right  to  say  anything  until  I  see  Al- 
thea." 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  Franklin  conceded. 

"But,  you  know,"  said  Gerald,  groping  too,  "it  's  not 
as  if  it  were  really  sudden — the  Althea  side  of  it,  I 
mean.  "We  've  not  hit  it  off  at  all.  I  've  disappointed 
her  frightfully;  it  will  be  a  relief  to  her,  I  know — to 
hear" — Gerald  stammered  a  little — "that  I  see  now, 
as  clearly  as  she  does,  that  we  couldn't  be  happy  to 
gether.  Of  course, ' '  and  he  grew  still  more  red,  ' '  it  will 
be  she  who  throws  me  over.  And — I  think  I  'd  better 
go  to  her  at  once." 

"Wait,  Gerald,"  said  Helen. 

He  paused  in  his  precipitate  dash  to  the  door.  Only 
her  gaze,  till  now,  had  told  of  the  chaos  within  her ;  but 
when  Gerald  said  that  he  was  going  to  Althea,  she  found 
words.  "Wait  a  moment.  I  don't  think  that  you  un 
derstand.  I  don't  think,  as  Franklin  says,  that  you  see 
some  things  at  all.  Do  you  realise  what  you  are 
doing?" 

Gerald  stood,  his  hand  on  the  door  knob,  and  looked 
at  her.  "Yes;  I  realise  it  perfectly." 

"Do  you  realise  that  it  will  not  change  me  and  that 
I  think  you  are  behaving  outrageously." 


292  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"Even  if  it  won't  change  you  I  'd  have  to  do  it  now. 
I  can't  marry  another  woman  when  I  'm  in  love  with 
you." 

"Can't  you?  When  you  know  that  you  can  never 
marry  me?" 

"Even  if  I  know  that,"  said  Gerald,  staring  at  her 
and,  with  his  deepening  sense  of  complications  looking, 
for  him,  almost  stern. 

"Well,  know  it;  once  for  all." 

"That  you  won't  ever  forgive  me?"  Gerald  ques 
tioned. 

"Put  it  like  that  if  you  like  to,"  she  answered. 

Gerald  turned  again  to  go  and  it  was  now  Franklin 
who  checked  him. 

"Mr.  Digby— wait,"  he  said;  " Helen— wait. "  He 
had  been  looking  at  them  both  while  they  interchanged 
their  hostilities,  and  yet,  though  watching  them,  he  had 
been  absent,  as  though  he  were  watching  something  else 
even  more.  "What  I  mean,  what  I  want  to  say,  is 

this "  he  rather  stammered.  "Don't  please  go  to 

Althea  directly.  I  'm  to  go  to  her  this  evening.  She 
asked  me  to  come  and  see  her  at  six."  He  pulled  out 
his  watch.  "It  's  five  now.  Will  you  wait?  Will  you 
wait  till  this  evening,  please?" 

Gerald  again  had  deeply  flushed.  "Of  course,  if  you 
ask  it.  Only  I  do  feel  that  I  ought  to  see  her,  you 
know,"  he  paused,  perplexed.  Then,  as  he  looked  at 
Franklin  Kane,  something  came  to  him.  The  cloud  of 
his  oppression  seemed  to  pass  from  his  face  and  it  was 
once  more  illuminated,  not  with  blitheness,  but  with 
recognition.  He  saw,  he  thought  he  saw,  the  way 
Franklin  opened  for  them  all.  And  his  words  expressed 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  293 

the  dazzled  relief  of  that  vision.  "I  see,"  he  said, 
gazing  on  at  Franklin,  "yes,  I  see.  Yes,  if  you  can 
manage  that  it  will  be  splendid  of  you,  Kane." 
Flooded  with  the  hope  of  swift  elucidation  he  seized  the 
other's  hand  while  he  went  on.  "It  's  been  such  a  dread 
ful  mess.  Do  forgive  me.  You  must;  you  will,  won't 
you?  It  may  mean  happiness  for  you,  even  though 
Helen  says  it  can't  for  me.  I  do  wish  you  all  good  for 
tune.  And — I  '11  be  at  my  club  until  I  hear  from  you. 
And  I  can't  say  how  I  thank  you."  AVith  this,  inco 
herently  and  rapidly  pronounced,  Gerald  was  gone  and 
Franklin  and  Helen  were  left  standing  before  each 
other. 

For  a  long  time  they  did  not  speak,  but  Franklin's 
silence  seemed  caused  by  no  embarrassment.  He  still 
looked  perplexed,  but,  through  his  perplexity,  he  looked 
intent,  as  though  tracing  in  greater  and  greater  clear 
ness  the  path  before  him — the  path  that  Gerald  had  seen 
that  he  was  opening  and  that  might,  Gerald  had  said, 
mean  happiness  to  them  all.  It  was  Helen  watching 
him  who  felt  a  cruel  embarrassment.  She  saw  Franklin 
sacrificed  and  she  saw  herself  unable  to  save  him.  It 
would  not  save  him  to  tell  him  again  that  she  would 
never  marry  Gerald.  Franklin  knew,  too  clearly  for 
any  evasion,  that  Althea's  was  the  desperate  case,  the 
case  for  succour.  She,  Helen,  could  be  thrown  over — 
for  they  couldn't  evade  that  aspect — and  suffer  never 
a  scratch;  but  for  Althea  to  throw  over  Gerald  meant 
that  in  doing  it  she  must  tear  her  heart  to  pieces. 

And  she  could  not  save  Franklin  by  telling  him  that 
she  had  divined  his  love  for  her;  that  would  give  him 
all  the  more  reason  for  ridding  her  of  a  husband  who 


294  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

hadn  't  kept  to  the  spirit  of  their  contract.  No,  the  only 
way  to  have  saved  him  would  have  been  to  love  him  and 
to  make  him  know  and  feel  it;  and  this  was  the  only 
thing  she  could  not  do  for  Franklin. 

She  took  refuge  in  her  nearest  feeling,  that  of  scorn 
for  Gerald.  "It  's  unforgivable  of  Gerald,"  she  said. 

Franklin's  eyes — they  had  a  deepened,  ravaged  look, 
but  they  were  still  calm — probed  hers,  all  their  intent- 
ness  now  for  her.  "Why,  no,"  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
"I  don't  see  that." 

Helen,  turning  away,  had  dropped  into  her  chair, 
leaning  her  forehead  on  her  hand.  "I  shall  never  for 
give  him,"  she  said. 

Franklin,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  stood  think 
ing,  thinking  so  hard  that  he  was  not  allowing  himself 
to  feel.  He  was  thinking  so  hard  of  Helen  that  he  was 
unconscious  how  the  question  he  now  asked  might  af 
fect  himself.  "You  do  love  him,  Helen?  It  's  him 
you  've  always  loved?" 

""Always,"  she  said. 

"And  he  's  found  it  out — only  to-day." 

"He  didn't  find  it  out;  I  told  him.  He  came  to  re 
proach  me  for  my  engagement. ' ' 

Franklin  turned  it  over.  "But  what  he  has  found 
out,  then,  is  that  he  loves  you." 

"So  he  imagines.  It  's  not  a  valuable  gift,  as  you 
see,  Gerald's  love." 

Again  Franklin  paused  and  she  knew  that,  for  her 
sake,  he  was  weighing  the  value  of  Gerald's  love.  And 
he  found  in  answer  to  what  she  said  his  former  words : 
"Why,  no,  I  don't  see  that,"  he  said. 

"I  'm  afraid  it  's  all  I  do  see,"  Helen  replied. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  295 

He  looked  down  upon  her  and  after  a  silence  he 
asked:  "May  I  say  something?" 

She  nodded,  resting  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"You  're  wrong,  you  know,"  said  Franklin.  "Not 
wrong  in  feeling  this  way  now;  I  don't  believe  you  can 
help  that;  but  in  deciding  to  go  on  feeling  it.  You 
mustn't  talk  about  final  decisions." 

"But  they  are  made." 

"They  can't  be  made  in  life.  Life  unmakes  them,  I 
mean,  unless  you  set  yourself  against  it  and  ruin  things 
that  might  be  mended." 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can't  take  things  as  you  do,"  said 
Helen.  "Some  things  are  ruined  from  the  very  be 
ginning." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Franklin;  "at 
all  events  some  things  aren't.  And  you  're  wrong  about 
this  thing,  I  'm  sure  of  it.  You  're  hard  and  you  're 
proud,  and  you  set  yourself  against  life  and  won't  let  it 
work  on  you.  The  only  way  to  get  anything  worth 
while  out  of  life  is  to  be  humble  with  it  and  be  'willing  to 
let  it  lead  you,  I  do  assure  you,  Helen." 

Suddenly,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  she  began 
to  cry. 

"He  is  spoiled  for  me.  Everything  is  spoiled  for 
me,"  she  sobbed.  "I  'd  rather  be  proud  and  miserable 
than  humiliated.  "Who  wants  a  joy  that  is  spoiled? 
Some  things  can't  be  joys  if  they  come  too  late." 

She  wept,  and  in  the  silence  between  them  knew  only 
her  own  sorrow  and  the  bitterness  of  the  desecration 
that  had  been  wrought  in  her  own  love.  Then,  dimly, 
through  her  tears,  she  heard  Franklin 's  voice,  and  heard 
that  it  trembled. 


296  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"I  think  they  can,  Helen,"  he  said.  "I  think  it  's 
wonderful  the  way  joy  can  grow  if  we  don't  set  our 
selves  against  life.  I  'm  going  to  try  to  make  it  grow" — 
how  his  poor  voice  trembled,  and  she  was  drawn  from 
her  own  grief  in  hearing  it — "and  I  wish  I  could  leave 
you  believing  that  you  were  going  to  try  too." 

She  put  down  her  hands  and  lifted  her  strange,  tear- 
stained  face. 

' '  You  are  going  to  Althea. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Franklin,  and  he  smiled  gently  at  her. 

"You  are  going  to  ask  her  to  marry  you  before  she 
can  know  that  Gerald  is  giving  her  up." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  "I  'm  going  to  see  if  she 
needs  me." 

Helen  gazed  at  him.  She  couldn't  see  joy  growing, 
but  she  saw  a  determination  that,  in  its  sudden  strength, 
was  almost  a  joy. 

"And — if  she  doesn't  need  you,  Franklin?" 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Franklin,  continuing  to  smile  rather 
fixedly,  "I  've  stood  that,  you  see,  for  a  good  many 
years." 

Helen  rose  and  came  beside  him.  "Franklin,"  she 
said,  and  she  took  his  hand,  "if  she  doesn't  have  you — 
you  '11  come  back." 

"Come  back?"  he  questioned,  and  she  saw  that  all 
his  hardly  held  fortitude  was  shaken  by  his  wonder. 

"To  me,"  said  Helen.  "You  '11  marry  me,  if  Althea 
won't  have  you.  Even  if  she  does — I  'm  not  going  to 
marry  Gerald.  So  don't  go  to  her  with  any  mistaken 
ideas  about  me." 

He  was  very  pale,  holding  her  hand  fast,  as  it  held 
his.  "You  mean — you  hate  him  so  much — for  never 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  297 

having  seen — that  you  '11  go  through  with  it — to  punish 
him." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  'm  not  so  bad  as  that. 
It  won't  be  for  revenge.  It  will  be  for  you — and  for 
myself,  too;  because  I  'd  rather  have  it  so;  I  'd  rather 
have  you,  Franklin,  than  the  ruined  thing. ' ' 

She  knew  that  it  was  final  and  supreme  temptation 
that  she  put  before  him,  and  she  held  it  there  resolved, 
so  that  if  there  were  one  chance  for  him  he  should  have 
it.  She  knew  that  she  would  stand  by  what  she  said. 
Franklin  was  her  pride  and  Gerald  her  humiliation ;  she 
would  never  accept  humiliation;  and  though  she  could 
see  Franklin  go  without  a  qualm,  she  could,  she  saw  it 
clearly,  have  a  welcome  for  him  nearly  as  deep  as 
love's,  if  he  came  back  to  her.  And  what  she  hoped, 
quite  selflessly,  was  that  the  temptation  would  suffice; 
that  he  would  not  go  to  Althea.  She  looked  into  his 
face,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  tormented. 

"But,  Helen,"  he  said,  "the  man  you  love  loves  you; 
doesn't  that  settle  everything?" 

She  shook  her  head  again.  "It  settles  nothing.  I 
told  you  that  I  was  a  woman  with  a  broken  heart.  It 's 
not  mended;  it  never  can  be  mended." 

"But,  Helen,"  he  said,  and  a  pitiful  smile  of  suppli 
cation  dawned  on  his  ravaged  little  face,  "that  's  where 
you  're  so  wrong.  You  've  got  to  let  it  soften  and  then 
it  will  have  to  mend.  It  's  the  hard  hearts  that  get 
broken." 

"Well,  mine  is  hard." 

"Let  it  melt,  Helen,"  he  pleaded  with  her,  "please  let 
it  melt.  Please  let  yourself  be  happy,  dear  Helen." 

But  still  she  shook  her  head,  looking  deeply  at  him, 


298  FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

and  in  the  negation,  in  the  look,  it  was  as  if  she  held  her 
cup  of  magic  steadily  before  him.  She  was  there,  for 
him,  if  he  would  have  her.  She  kept  him  to  his  word 
for  his  sake ;  but  she  kept  him  to  his  word  for  hers,  too. 
Yes,  he  saw  that  though  it  was  for  his  sake  it  was  not 
for  his  alone — there  was  the  final  magic — that  her  eyes 
met  his  in  that  long,  clear  look.  It  was  the  nearest  he 
would  ever  come  to  Helen;  it  was  the  most  she  could 
ever  do  for  him;  and,  with  a  pang,  deep  and  piercing, 
he  felt  all  that  it  meant,  and  felt  his  love  of  her  avowed 
in  his  own  eyes,  and  recognised,  received  in  hers.  Help 
lessly,  now,  he  looked  it  at  her,  his  lips  pressed  together 
so  that  they  should  not  show  their  trembling,  and  only 
a  little  muscle  in  his  cheek  quivering  irrepressibly.  And 
he  faltered:  "Helen — you  could  never  love  me  back." 

"Not  in  that  way,"  said  Helen.  She  was  grave  and 
clear;  she  had  not  a  hesitation.  "But  that  way  is 
ruined  and  over  for  me.  I  could  live  for  you,  though. 
I  could  make  it  worth  your  while. ' ' 

He  looked,  and  he  could  say  nothing.  Against  his 
need  of  Helen  he  must  measure  Althea's  need  of  him. 
He  must  measure,  too — ah,  cruel  perplexity — the  chance 
for  Helen's  happiness.  She  was  unhesitating;  but  how 
could  she  know  herself  so  inflexible,  how  could  she  know 
that  the  hard  heart  might  not  melt?  For  the  sake  of 
Helen's  happiness  he  must  measure  not  only  Gerald's 
need  of  her  against  his  own  and  Gerald's  power  against 
his  own  mere  pitifulness,  but  he  must  wonder,  in  an 
agony  of  sudden  surmise,  which,  in  the  long  run,  could 
give  her  most,  the  loved  or  the  unloved  man.  In  all  his 
life  no  moment  had  ever  equalled  this  in  its  fulness, 
and  its  intensity,  and  its  pain.  It  thundered,  it  rushed, 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  299 

it  darkened — like  the  moment  of  death  by  drowning  and 
like  the  great  river  that  bears  away  the  drowning  man. 
Memories  flashed  in  it,  broken  and  vivid — of  Althea's 
eyes  and  Helen's  smile;  Althea  so  appealing,  Helen  so 
strong;  and,  incongruous  in  its  remoteness,  a  memory 
of  the  bleak,  shabby  little  street  in  a  Boston  suburb, 
the  small  wooden  house  painted  brown,  where  he  was 
born,  where  scanty  nasturtiums  flowered  on  the  fence 
in  summer,  and  in  wrinter,  by  the  light  of  a  lamp'  with  a 
ground  glass  shade,  his  mother's  face,  careful,  worn,  and 
gentle,  bent  over  the  family  mending.  AVhere,  indeed, 
had  the  river  borne  him,  and  what  had  been  done  to 
him? 

Helen's  voice  came  to  him,  and  Helen's  face  reshaped 
itself — a  strange  and  lovely  beacon  over  the  engulfing 
waters.  She  saw  his  torment  and  she  understood.  ' '  Go 
to  her  if  you  must,"  she  said;  "and  I  know  that  you 
must.  But  don't  go  with  mistaken  ideas.  Remember 
what  I  tell  you.  Nothing  is  changed — for  me,  or  in  me. 
If  Althea  doesn't  want  you  back — or  if  Althea  does 
want  you  back — I  shall  be  waiting."  And,  seeing  his 
extremity,  Helen,  grave  and  clear,  filled  her  cup  of 
magic  to  the  brim.  As  she  had  said  that  morning,  she 
said  now — but  with  what  a  difference :  ' '  Kiss  me  good 
bye,  Franklin." 

He  could  not  move  toward  her ;  he  could  not  kiss  her ; 
but,  smiling  more  tenderly  than  he  could  have  thought 
Helen  would  ever  smile,  she  put  her  arms  around  him 
and  drew  his  rapt,  transfigured  face  to  hers.  And  hold 
ing  him  tenderly,  she  kissed  him  and  said:  "What 
ever  happens — you  Ve  had  the  best  of  me. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ALTHEA,  since  the  misty  walk  with  Gerald,  had 
been  plunged  in  a  pit  of  mental  confusion.  She 
swung  from  accepted  abasement  to  the  desperate 
thought  of  the  magnanimity  in  such  abasement;  she 
dropped  from  this  fragile  foothold  to  burning  resent 
ment,  and,  seeing  where  resentment  must  lead  her,  she 
turned  again  and  clasped,  with  tight-closed  eyes,  the 
love  that,  looked  upon,  could  not  be  held  without  hu 
miliation.  Self-doubt  and  self-analysis  had  brought  her 
to  this  state  of  pitiful  chaos.  The  only  self  left  seemed 
centred  in  her  love ;  if  she  did  not  give  up  Gerald,  what 
Was  left  her  but  accepted  abasement?  If  she  let  him 
go,  it  would  be  to  own  to  herself  that  she  had  failed  to 
hold  him,  to  see  herself  as  a  nonentity.  Yet,  to  go  on 
clinging,  what  would  that  show?  Only  with  closed  eyes 
could  she  cling.  To  open  them  for  the  merest  glimmer 
was  to  see  that  she  was,  indeed,  nothing,  if  she  had  not 
strength  to  relinquish  a  man  who  did  not  any  longer, 
in  any  sense,  wish  to  make  her  his  wife.  With  closed 
eyes  one  might  imagine  that  it  was  strength  that  clung ; 
with  open  eyes  one  saw  that  it  was  weakness. 

Miss  Harriet  Robinson,  all  alert  gaiety  and  apprecia 
tion,  had  arrived  at  Merriston  on  Saturday,  had  talked 
all  through  Sunday,  and  had  come  up  to  London  with 
Althea  and  Gerald  on  Monday  morning.  Gerald  had 
gone  to  a  smoking-carriage,  and  Althea  had  hardly  ex- 

300 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  301 

changed  a  word  with  him.  She  and  Miss  Robinson  went 
to  a  little  hotel  in  Mayfair,  a  hotel  supposed  to  atone 
for  its  costliness  and  shabbiness  by  some  peculiar  emana 
tion  of  British  comfort.  Americans  of  an  earnest,  if 
luxurious  type,  congregated  there  and  found  a  satisfac 
tory  local  flavour  in  worn  chintzes  and  uneven  passages. 
Lady  Blair  had  kindly  pressed  Althea  to  stay  with  her 
in  South  Kensington  and  be  married  from  her  house ; 
but  even  a  week  ago,  when  this  plan  had  been  suggested, 
Althea  had  shrunk  from  it.  It  had  seemed,  even  then, 
too  decisive.  Once  beneath  Lady  Blair's  quasi-maternal 
roof  one  would  be  propelled,  like  a  labelled  parcel,  re- 
sistlessly  to  the  altar.  Even  then  Althea  had  felt  that 
the  little  hotel  in  Mayfair,  with  its  transient  guests  and 
impersonal  atmosphere,  offered  further  breathing  space 
for  indefiniteness. 

She  was  thankful  indeed  for  breathing  space  as,  on 
the  afternoon  of  her  arrival,  she  sat  sunken  in  a  large 
chair  and  felt,  as  one  relief,  that  she  would  not  see  Miss 
Robinson  again  until  evening.  It  had  been  tormenting, 
all  the  journey  up,  to  tear  herself  from  her  own  sick 
thoughts  and  to  answer  Miss  Robinson's  unsuspecting 
comments  and  suggestions. 

Miss  Robinson  was  as  complacent  and  as  beaming  as 
though  she  had  herself  "settled"  Althea.  She  richly 
embroidered  the  themes,  now  so  remote,  that  had  once 
occupied  poor  Althea 's  imagination — house-parties  at 
Merriston ;  hostess-ship  on  a  large  scale  in  London ; 
Gerald's  seat  in  Parliament  taken  as  a  matter-of-course. 
Althea,  feeling  the  intolerable  irony,  had  attempted 
vague  qualifications;  Gerald  did  not  care  for  politics; 
she  herself  preferred  a  quieter  life ;  they  probably  could 


302  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

not  afford  a  town  house.  But  to  such  disclaimers  Miss 
Robinson  opposed  the  brightness  of  her  faith  in  her 
friend's  capacities.  "Ah,  my  dear,  it  's  your  very  reti 
cence,  your  very  quietness,  that  will  tell.  Once  settled 
— I  've  always  felt  it  of  you — you  will  make  your  place 
— and  your  place  can  only  be  a  big  one.  My  only  re 
gret  is  that  you  won't  get  your  wedding-dress  in  Paris 
— oh  yes,  I  know  that  they  have  immensely  improved 
over  here ;  but,  for  cut  and  cachet,  Paris  is  still  the  only 
place." 

This  had  all  been  tormenting,  and  Miss  Buckston's 
presence  at  lunch  had  been  something  of  a  refuge — Miss 
Buckston,  far  more  interested  in  her  Bach  choir  prac 
tice  than  in  Althea's  plans,  and  lending  but  a  preoccu 
pied  attention  to  Miss  Robinson's  matrimonial  talk. 
Miss  Buckston,  at  a  glance,  had  dismissed  Miss  Robinson 
as  frothy  and  shallow.  They  were  both  gone  now,  thank 
goodness.  Lady  Blair  would  not  descend  upon  her  till 
next  morning,  and  Sally  and  Mrs.  Peel  were  not  due  in 
London  until  the  end  of  the  week.  Althea  sat,  her  head 
leaning  back,  her  eyes  closed,  and  wondered  whether 
Gerald  would  come  and  see  her.  He  had  parted  from 
her  at  the  station,  and  the  memory  of  his  face,  courteous, 
gentle,  yet  so  unseeing,  made  her  feel  like  weeping 
piteously.  She  spent  the  afternoon  in  the  chair,  her 
eyes  closed  and  an  electric  excitement  of  expectancy 
tingling  through  her,  and  Gerald  did  not  come.  He  did 
not  come  that  evening,  and  the  evening  passed  like  a 
phantasmagoria — the  dinner  in  the  sober  little  dining- 
room,  Miss  Robinson  richly  dressed,  opposite  her;  and 
the  hours  in  her  drawing-room  afterwards,  she  and  Miss 
Robinson  on  either  side  of  the  fire,  quietly  conversing. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  303 

And  next  morning  there  was  no  word  from  him.  It  was 
then,  as  she  lay  in  bed  and  felt  the  tears,  though  she  did 
not  sob,  roll  down  over  her  cheeks  upon  the  pillow,  that 
sudden  strength  came  with  sudden  revolt.  A  revulsion 
against  her  suffering  and  the  cause  of  it  went  through 
her,  and  she  seemed  to  shake  off  a  torpor,  an  obsession, 
and  to  re-enter  some  moral  heritage  from  which,  for 
months,  her  helpless  love  had  shut  her  out. 

Lying  there,  her  cheeks  still  wet  but  her  eyes  now 
stern  and  steady,  she  felt  herself  sustained,  as  if  by  sud 
den  wings,  at  a  vertiginous  height  from  which  she  looked 
down  upon  herself  and  upon  her  love.  What  had  it 
been,  that  love?  what  was  it,  but  passion  pure  and  sim 
ple,  the  craving  feminine  thing,  enmeshed  in  charm.  To 
a  woman  of  her  training,  her  tradition,  must  not  a  love 
that  could  finally  satisfy  her  nature,  its  deeps  and 
heights,  be  a  far  other  love ;  a  love  of  spirit  rather  than 
of  flesh?  What  was  all  the  pain  that  had  warped  her 
for  so  long  but  the  inevitable  retribution  for  her  back 
sliding?  Old  adages  came  to  her,  aerial  Emersonian 
faiths.  Why,  one  was  bound  and  fettered  if  feeling  was 
to  rule  one  and  not  mind.  Friendship,  deep,  spiritual 
congeniality,  was  the  real  basis  for  marriage,  not  the 
enchantment  of  the  heart  and  senses.  She  had  been 
weak  and  dazzled;  she  had  followed  the  will-o'-the-wisp 
— and  see,  see  the  bog  where  it  had  led  her. 

She  saw  it  now,  still  sustained  above  it  and  looking 
down.  Her  love  for  Gerald  was  not  a  high  thing;  it 
called  out  no  greatness  in  her;  appealed  to  none;  there 
was  no  spiritual  congeniality  between  them.  In  the  re 
gion  of  her  soul  he  was,  and  would  always  remain,  a 
stranger. 


304  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

Sure  of  this  at  last,  she  rose  and  wrote  to  Franklin, 
swiftly  and  urgently.  She  did  not  clearly  know  what 
she  wanted  of  him;  but  she  felt,  like  a  flame  of  faith 
within  her,  that  he,  and  he  only,  could  sustain  her  at 
her  height.  He  was  her  spiritual  affinity;  he  was  her 
wings.  Merely  to  see  him,  merely  to  steep  herself  in  the 
radiance  of  his  love  and  sympathy,  would  be  to  recover 
power,  poise,  personality,  and  independence.  It  was 
a  goal  she  flew  towards,  though  she  saw  it  but  in  dizzy 
glimpses,  and  as  if  through  vast  hallucinations  of 
space. 

She  told  Franklin  to  come  at  six.  She  gave  herself 
one  more  day;  for  what  she  could  not  have  said.  A 
lightness  of  head  seemed  to  swim  over  her,  and  a  loss  of 
breath,  when  she  tried  to  see  more  clearly  the  goal,  or 
what  might  still  capture  and  keep  her  from  it. 

She  told  Amelie  that  she  had  a  bad  headache  and 
would  spend  the  day  on  her  sofa,  denying  herself  to 
Lady  Blair ;  and  all  day  long  she  lay  there  with  tingling 
nerves  and  a  heavily  beating  heart — poor  heart,  what 
was  happening  to  it  in  its  depths  she  could  not  tell — 
and  Gerald  did  not  write  or  come. 

At  tea-time  Miss  Robinson  could  not  be  avoided.  She 
tip-toed  in  and  sat  beside  her  sofa  commenting  compas 
sionately  on  her  pallor.  "  I  do  so  beg  you  to  go  straight 
to  bed,  dear,"  she  said.  "Let  me  give  you  some  sal- 
volatile;  there  is  nothing  better  for  a  headache." 

But  Althea,  smiling  heroically,  said  that  she  must  stay 
up  to  see  Franklin  Kane.  "He  wants  to  see  me,  and 
will  be  here  at  six.  After  he  is  gone  I  will  go  to  bed." 
She  did  not  know  why  she  should  thus  arrange  facts 
a  little  for  Miss  Robinson;  but  all  her  nature  was 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  305 

stretched  on  its  impulse  towards  safety,  and  it  was  auto 
matically  that  she  adjusted  facts  to  that  end.  After 
the  first  great  moment  of  enfranchisement  and  soaring, 
it  was  like  relapsing  to  some  sub-conscious  function  of 
the  organism — digestion  or  circulation — that  did  things 
for  one  if  one  didn't  interfere  with  it.  Her  mind  no 
longer  directed  her  course  except  in  this  transformed 
and  subsidiary  guise;  it  had  become  part  of  the  ma 
chinery  of  self-preservation. 

"You  really  are  an  angel,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Rob 
inson.  "You  oughtn't  to  allow  your  devotees  to  ac- 
caparer  you  like  this.  You  will  wear  yourself  out. ' ' 

Althea,  with  a  smile  still  more  heroic,  said  that  dear 
Franklin  could  never  wear  her  out;  and  Miss  Robinson, 
not  to  be  undeceived,  shook  her  head,  while  retiring  to 
make  room  for  the  indiscreet  friend. 

When  she  was  gone,  Althea  got  up  and  took  her  place 
in  the  chintz  chair  where  she  had  waited  for  so  long 
yesterday. 

Outside,  a  foggy  day  closed  to  almost  opaque  obscur 
ity.  The  fire  burned  brightly,  there  were  candles  on 
the  mantelpiece  and  a  lamp  on  the  table,  yet  the  en 
compassing  darkness  seemed  to  have  entered  the  room. 
After  the  aerial  heights  of  the  morning  it  was  now  at  a 
corresponding  depth,  as  if  sunken  to  the  ocean-bed,  that 
she  seemed  to  sit  and  wait,  and  feel,  in  a  trance-like 
pause,  deep,  essential  forces  working.  And  she  remem 
bered  the  sunny  day  in  Paris,  and  the  other  hotel  draw 
ing-room  where,  empty  and  aimless,  she  had  sat,  only 
six  months  ago.  How  much  had  come  to  her  since  then ; 
through  how  much  hope  and  life  had  she  lived,  to  what 
heights  been  lifted,  to  what  depths  struck  down.  And 


306  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

now,  once  more  she  sat,  bereft  of  everything,  and  wait 
ing  for  she  knew  not  what. 

Franklin  appeared  almost  to  the  moment.  Althea 
had  not  seen  him  since  leaving  London  some  weeks  be 
fore,  and  at  the  first  glance  he  seemed  to  her  in  some 
way  different.  She  had  only  time  to  think,  fleetingly, 
of  all  that  had  happened  to  Franklin  since  she  had  last 
seen  him,  all  the  strange,  new  things  that  Helen  must 
have  meant  to  him;  and  the  thought,  fleeting  though  it 
was,  made  more  urgent  the  impulse  that  pressed  her  on. 
For,  after  all,  the  second  glance  showed  him  as  so  much 
the  same,  the  same  to  the  unbecomingness  of  his  clothes, 
the  flatness  of  his  features,  the  general  effect  of  de 
cision  and  placidity  that  he  always,  predominatingly, 
gave. 

It  was  on  Franklin's  sameness  that  she  leaned.  It 
was  Franklin 's  sameness  that  was  her  goal ;  she  trusted 
it  like  the  ground  beneath  her  feet.  She  went  to  him 
and  put  out  her  hands.  "Dear  Franklin,"  she  said, 
"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

He  took  her  hands  and  held  them  while  he  looked 
into  her  eyes.  The  face  she  lifted  to  him  was  a  woful 
one,  in  spite  of  the  steadying  of  its  pale  lips  to  a  smile. 
It  was  not  enfranchisement  and  the  sustained  height 
that  he  saw — it  was  fear  and  desolation ;  they  looked  at 
him  out  of  her  large,  sad  eyes  and  they  were  like  an 
uttered  cry.  He  saw  her  need,  worse  still,  he  saw  her 
trust;  and  yet,  ah  yet,  his  hope,  his  unacknowledged 
hope,  the  hope  which  Helen's  magic  had  poured  into 
his  veins,  pulsed  in  him.  He  saw  her  need,  but  as  he 
looked,  full  of  compassion  and  solicitude,  he  was  hoping 
that  her  need  was  not  of  him. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  307 

Suddenly  Althea  burst  into  sobs.  She  leaned  her 
face  against  his  shoulder,  her  hands  still  held  in  his, 
and  she  wept  out:  "Oh,  Franklin,  I  had  to  send  for 
you — you  are  my  only  friend — I  am  so  unhappy,  so 
unhappy."  Franklin  put  an  arm  around  her,  still 
holding  her  hand,  and  he  slightly  patted  her  back  as 
she  leaned  upon  him.  "Poor  Althea,  poor  dear,"  he 
said. 

' '  Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  Franklin  1 ' '  she  whispered. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Franklin.  "Tell  me 
what  's  the  matter." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  in  the  pause  her 
thoughts,  released  for  that  one  instant  from  their  place 
of  servitude,  scurried  through  the  inner  confusion.  His 
tone,  the  quietness,  kindness,  rationality  of  it,  seemed  to 
demand  reason,  not  impulse,  from  her,  the  order  of  truth 
and  not  the  chaos  of  feeling.  But  pain  and  fear  had 
worked  for  too  long  upon  her  and  she  did  not  know 
what  truth  was.  All  she  knew  was  that  he  was  near, 
and  tender  and  compassionate,  and  to  know  that  seemed 
to  be  knowing  at  last  that  here  was  the  real  love,  the 
love  of  spirit  from  which  she  had  turned  to  lower  things. 
Impulse,  not  insincere,  surged  up,  and  moved  by  it 
alone  she  sobbed  on,  "Oh,  Franklin,  I  have  made  a  mis 
take,  a  horrible,  horrible  mistake.  It  's  killing  me.  I 
can't  go  on.  I  don't  love  him,  Franklin — I  don't  love 
Gerald — I  can't  marry  him.  And  how  can  I  tell  him? 
How  can  I  break  faith  with  him  ? ' ' 

Franklin  stood  very  still,  his  hand  clasping  hers,  the 
other  ceasing  its  rhythmic,  consolatory  movement.  He 
held  her,  this  woman  whom  he  had  loved  for  so  many 
years,  and  over  her  bent  head  he  looked  before  him  at 


308  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

the  frivolous  and  ugly  wall-paper,  a  chaos  of  festooned 
chrysanthemums  on  a  bright  pink  ground.  He  gazed 
at  the  chrysanthemums  and  he  wondered,  with  a  direful 
pang,  whether  Althea  were  consciously  lying  to  him. 

She  sobbed  on:  "Even  in  the  first  week,  I  knew  that 
something  was  wrong.  Of  course  I  was  in  love — but  it 
was  only  that — there  was  nothing  else  except  being  in 
love.  Doubts  gnawed  at  me  from  the  first;  I  couldn't 
bear  to  accept  them ;  I  hoped  on  and  on.  Only  in  this 
last  week  I  've  seen  that  I  can't — I  can't  marry  him. 
Oh —  "  and  the  wail  was  again  repeated,  "what  shall 
I  do,  Franklin?" 

He  spoke  at  last,  and  in  the  disarray  of  her  sobbing 
and  darkened  condition — her  face  pressed  against  him, 
her  ears  full  of  the  sound  of  her  own  labouring  breath, 
she  could  not  know  to  the  full  how  strange  his  voice 
was,  though  she  felt  strangeness  and  caught  her  breath 
to  listen. 

"Don't  take  it  like  this,  Althea,"  he  said.  "It  's 
not  so  bad  as  all  this.  It  can  all  be  made  right.  You 
must  just  tell  him  the  truth  and  set  him  free." 

And  now  there  was  a  strange  silence.  He  was  wait 
ing,  and  she  was  waiting  too ;  she  stilled  her  breath  and 
he  stilled  his;  all  each  heard  was  the  beating  of  his 
and  her  own  heart.  And  the  silence,  to  Althea,  was  full 
of  a  new  and  formless  fear,  and  to  Franklin  of  an  ac 
ceptation  sad  beyond  all  the  sadnesses  of  his  life.  Even 
before  Althea  spoke,  and  while  the  sweet,  the  rapturous, 
the  impossible  hope  softly  died  away,  he  knew  in  his 
heart,  emptied  of  magic,  that  it  was  he  Althea  needed. 

She  spoke  at  last,  in  a  changed  and  trembling  voice; 
it  pierced  him  for  he  felt  the  new  fear  in  it:  "How 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  309 

can  I  tell  him  the  truth,  Franklin?"  she  said.  "How 
can  I  tell  you  the  truth  ?  How  can  I  say  that  I  turned 
from  the  real  thing,  the  deepest,  most  beautiful  thing  in 
my  life — and  hurt  it,  broke  it,  put  it  aside,  so  blind,  so 
terribly  blind  I  was — and  took  the  unreal  thing?  How 
can  I  ever  forgive  myself — but,  oh,  Franklin,  much, 
much  more,  how  can  you  ever  forgive  me?"  her  voice 
wailed  up,  claiming  him  supremely. 

She  believed  it  to  be  the  truth,  and  he  saw  that  she 
believed  it.  He  saw,  sadly,  clearly,  that  among  all  the 
twistings  and  deviations  of  her  predicament,  one  thing 
held  firm  for  her,  so  firm  that  it  had  given  her  this  new 
faith  in  herself — her  faith  in  his  supreme  devotion. 
And  he  saw  that  he  owed  it  to  her.  He  had  given  it  to 
her,  he  had  made  it  her  possession,  to  trust  to  as  she 
trusted  to  the  ground  under  her  feet,  ever  since  they 
were  boy  and  girl  together.  Six  months  ago  it  would 
have  been  with  joy,  and  with  joy  only,  that  he  would 
have  received  her,  and  have  received  the  gift  of  her 
bruised,  uncertain  heart.  Six  months — why  only  a  week 
ago  he  would  have  thought  that  it  could  only  be  with 
joy. 

So  now  he  found  his  voice  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
nearly  his  old  voice  for  her,  and  he  said,  in  answer  to 
that  despairing  statement  that  wailed  for  contradic 
tion:  "Oh,  no,  Althea,  dear.  Oh,  no,  you  haven't 
wrecked  our  lives." 

"But  you  are  bound  now,"  she  hardly  audibly  fal 
tered.  "You  have  another  life  opening  before  you. 
You  can't  come  back  now." 

"No,  Althea,"  Franklin  repeated,  and  he  stroked  her 
shoulder  again.  "I  can  come  back,  if  you  want  me. 


310  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

And  you  do  want  me,  don 't  you,  dear  ?  You  will  let  me 
try  to  make  you  happy?" 

She  put  back  her  head  to  look  at  him,  her  poor  face, 
tear-stained,  her  eyes  wild  with  their  suffering,  and  he 
saw  the  new  fear  in  them,  the  formless  fear.  "Oh, 
Franklin,"  she  said,  and  the  question  was  indeed  a 
strange  one  to  be  asked  by  her  of  him:  "do  you  love 
me?" 

And  now,  pierced  by  his  pity,  Franklin  could  rise  to 
all  she  needed  of  him.  The  old  faith  sustained  him, 
too.  One  didn't  love  some  one  for  all  one's  life  like 
that,  to  be  left  quite  dispossessed.  Many  things  were 
changed,  but  many  still  held  firm ;  and  though,  deep  in 
his  heart,  sick  with  its  relinquishment,  Helen's  words 
seemed  to  whisper,  "Some  things  can't  be  joys  when 
they  come  too  late,"  he  could  answer  himself  as  he  had 
answered  her,  putting  away  the  irony  and  scepticism 
of  disenchantment — "It  's  wonderful  the  way  joy  can 
grow,"  and  draw  strength  for  himself  and  for  his  poor 
Althea  from  that  act  of  affirmation. 

"Why,  of  course  I  love  you,  Althea,  dear,"  he  said. 
"How  can  you  ask  me  that?  I  've  always  loved  you, 
haven't  I?  You  knew  I  did,  didn't  you,  or  else  you 
wouldn't  have  sent?  You  knew  I  wasn't  bound  if  you 
were  free.  I  understand  it  all."  And  smiling  at  her  so 
that  she  should  forget  for  ever  that  she  had  had  a  new 
fear,  he  added,  "And  see  here,  dear,  you  mustn't  delay 
a  moment  in  letting  Gerald  know.  Come,  write  him  a 
note  now,  and  I  '11  have  it  sent  to  his  club  so  that  he 
shall  hear  right  away. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HELEN  woke  next  morning  after  unbroken,  heavy 
slumbers,  with  a  mind  as  vague  and  empty  as  a 
young  child's.  All  night  long  she  had  been  dreaming 
strange,  dreary  dreams  of  her  youth.  There  had  been 
no  pain  in  them,  or  fear,  only  a  sad  lassitude,  as  of  one 
who,  beaten  and  weary,  looks  back  from  a  far  distance 
at  pain  and  fear  outlived.  And  lying  in  her  bed,  inert 
and  placid,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  in  a  great  battle, 
and  that  after  the  annihilation  of  anesthetics  she  had 
waked  to  find  herself  with  limbs  gone  and  wounds  ban 
daged,  passive  and  acquiescent,  in  a  world  from  which 
all  large  issues  had  been  eliminated  for  ever. 

It  was  the  emptiest  kind  of  life  on  which  her  eyes 
opened  so  quietly  this  morning.  She  was  not  even  to  be 
life's  captive.  The  little  note  which  had  come  to  her 
last  night  from  Franklin  and  now  lay  beside  her  bed 
had  told  her  that.  He  had  told  her  that  Althea  had 
taken  him  back  and  he  had  only  added,  "  Thank  you, 
dear  Helen,  for  all  that  you  have  given  me  and  all  that 
you  were  willing  to  give." 

In  the  overpowering  sense  of  sadness  that  had  been 
the  last  of  the  day's  great  emotions  Helen  had  found  no 
mitigation  of  relief  for  her  own  escape.  That  she  had 
escaped  made  only  an  added  bitterness.  And  even  sad 
ness  seemed  to  be  a  memory  this  morning,  and  the  relief 
that  came,  profound  and  almost  sweet,  was  in  the  sense 

311 


312  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

of  having  passed  away  from  feeling.  She  had  felt  too 
much;  though,  had  life  been  in  her  with  which  to  think 
or  feel,  she  could  have  wept  over  Franklin. 

Sometimes  she  closed  her  eyes,  too  much  at  peace  for 
a  smile ;  sometimes  she  looked  quietly  about  her  familiar 
little  room,  above  Aunt  Grizel's,  and  showing  from  its 
windows  only  a  view  of  the  sky  and  of  the  chimney  pots 
opposite,  a  room  oddly  empty  of  associations  and  links; 
no  photographs,  few  books,  few  pictures;  only  the  vase 
of  flowers  she  liked  always  to  have  near  her;  her  old 
Bible  and  prayer-book  and  hymnal,  battered  by  years 
rather  than  by  use,  for  religion  held  no  part  at  all  in 
Helen's  life;  and  two  faded  prints  of  seventeenth-cen 
tury  battleships,  sailing  in  gallant  squadrons  on  a  sil 
very  sea.  These  had  hung  in  Helen's  schoolroom,  and 
she  had  always  been  fond  of  them.  The  room  was  sym 
bolic  of  her  life,  so  insignificant  in  every  outer  contact, 
so  centred,  in  her  significant  self,  on  its  one  deep  pre 
occupation.  But  there  was  no  preoccupation  now. 
Gerald's  image  passed  before  her  and  meant  nothing 
more  than  the  other  things  she  looked  at,  while  her  mind 
drifted  like  an  aimless  butterfly  from  the  flowers  and 
the  prints  to  the  pretty  old  mirror — a  gift  of  Gerald's — 
and  hovered  over  the  graceful  feminine  objects  scat 
tered  upon  the  chairs  and  tables.  The  thought  of  Ger 
ald  stirred  nothing  more  than  a  mild  wonder.  What 
a  strange  thing,  her  whole  life  hanging  on  this  man, 
coloured,  moulded  by  him.  "What  did  such  a  feeling 
mean?  and  what  had  she  really  wanted  of  Gerald  more 
than  he  had  given?  She  wanted  nothing  now. 

It  was  with  an  effort — a  painful,  dragging  effort — 
that  she  roused  herself  to  talk  to  Aunt  Grizel,  who  ap- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  313 

peared  at  the  same  time  as  her  breakfast.  Not  that  she 
needed  to  act  placidity  and  acquiescence  before  Aunt 
Grizel ;  she  felt  them  too  deeply  to  need  to  act ;  the  pain, 
perhaps,  came  from  having  nothing  else  with  which  to 
meet  her. 

Aunt  Grizel  was  amazed,  distressed,  nearly  indignant ; 
she  only  was  not  indignant  because  of  a  pity  that  per 
plexed  even  while  it  soothed  her.  She,  too,  had  had 
a  letter  from  Franklin  that  morning,  and  only  that 
morning  had  heard  of  the  broken  engagement  and  of 
how  Franklin  faced  it.  She  did  now  offer  to  show  Helen 
Franklin's  letter,  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  empha 
sising  her  perplexity  by  doubling  it  over  and  slapping 
her  palm  with  it.  "She  sent  for  him,  then."  It  was 
on  Althea  that  she  longed  to  discharge  her  smothered 
anger. 

Helen  was  ready  for  her;  to  have  to  be  so  ready  was 
part  of  the  pain.  "Well,  in  a  sense  perhaps,  it  was  all 
she  could  do,  wasn't  it?  when  she  found  that  she 
couldn't  go  on  with  Gerald,  and  really  wanted  Franklin 
at  last." 

"Rather  late  in  the  day  to  come  to  that  conclusion 
when  Mr.  Kane  was  engaged  to  another  woman." 

"Well — he  was  engaged  to  another  woman  only  be 
cause  Althea  wouldn't  have  him." 

' '  Oh ! — Ah ! ' '  Aunt  Grizel  was  non-committal  on  this 
point.  "She  lets  him  seem  to  jilt  you." 

"Perhaps  she  does."  Helen's  placidity  was  pro 
found. 

"I  know  Mr.  Kane,  he  wouldn't  have  been  willing  to 
do  that  unless  pressure  had  been  brought  to  bear." 

"Pressure  was,  I  suppose;  the  pressure  of  his  own 


314 

feeling  and  of  Althea's  unhappiness.  He  saw  that  his 
chance  had  come  and  he  had  to  take  it.  He  couldn't 
go  on  and  marry  me,  could  he,  Aunt  Grizel?  when  he 
saw  the  chance  had  come  for  him  to  take,"  said  Helen 
reasonably. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Grizel,  "the  main  point  isn't,  of 
course,  what  the  people  who  know  of  your  engagement 
will  think — we  don't  mind  that.  What  we  want  to  de 
cide  on  is  what  we  think  ourselves.  I  keep  my  own 
counsel,  for  I  know  you  'd  rather  I  did,  and  you  keep 
yours.  But  what  about  this  money?  He  writes  to  me 
that  he  wants  me  to  take  over  from  him  quite  a  little 
fortune,  so  that  when  I  die  I  can  leave  you  about  a 
thousand  a  year.  He  has  thought  it  out;  it  isn't  too 
much  and  it  isn't  too  little.  He  is  altogether  a  remark 
able  man ;  his  tact  never  fails  him.  Of  course  it  's  noth 
ing  compared  with  what  he  wanted  to  do  for  you;  but 
at  the  same  time  it  's  so  much  that,  to  put  it  brutally, 
you  get  for  nothing  the  safety  I  wanted  you  to  marry 
him  to  get." 

Helen's  delicate  and  weary  head  now  turned  on  its 
pillow  to  look  at  Aunt  Grizel.  They  looked  at  each 
other  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  in  the  silence  they 
took  counsel  together.  After  the  interchange  Helen 
could  say,  smiling  a  little,  "We  mustn't  put  it  brutally; 
that  is  the  one  thing  we  must  never  do.  Not  only  for 
his  sake,"  she  wanted  Aunt  Grizel  to  see  it  clearly, 
"but  for  mine." 

"How  shall  we  put  it,  then?  It  's  hardly  a  possible 
thing  to  accept,  yet,  if  he  hadn't  believed  you  would  let 
him  make  you  safe,  would  he  have  gone  back  to  Miss 
Jakes?  One  sees  his  point." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  315 

"We  mustn't  put  it  brutally,  because  it  isn't  true," 
said  Helen,  ignoring  this  last  inference.  "I  couldn't  let 
you  take  it  for  me  unless  I  cared  very  much  for  him; 
and  I  care  so  much  that  I  can't  not  take  it." 

Aunt  Grizel  was  silent  for  another  moment.  "I  see; 
it  's  because  it  's  all  you  can  do  for  him  now." 

"All  that  he  can  do  for  me,  now,"  Helen  just  cor 
rected  her. 

"Wasn't  it  all  he  ever  could  do,  and  more?  He 
makes  you  safe — of  course  it  's  not  what  I  wanted  for 
you,  but  it  's  part  of  it — he  makes  you  safe  and  he  re 
moves  himself." 

Aunt  Grizel  saw  the  truth  so  clearly  that  Helen  could 
allow  her  to  seem  brutal.  "It  's  only  because  we  could 
both  do  a  good  deal  for  each  other  that  doing  this  is 
possible,"  she  said. 

She  then  roused  herself  to  pour  out  her  coffee  and  but 
ter  her  toast,  and  Miss  Buchanan  sat  in  silence  beside 
her,  tapping  Franklin  Winslow  Kane's  letter  on  her 
palm  from  time  to  time.  And  at  last  she  brought  out 
her  final  decision.  "When  I  write  to  him  and  tell  him 
that  I  accept,  I  shall  tell  him  too,  that  I  'm  sorry. ' ' 

"Sorry?  For  what?"  Helen  did  not  quite  follow 
her. 

' '  That  it  's  all  he  can  do  now, ' '  said  Aunt  Grizel ; 
"that  he  is  removing  himself." 

It  was  her  tribute  to  Franklin,  and  Helen,  even  for 
the  sake  of  all  the  delicate  appearances,  couldn't  pro 
test  against  such  a  tribute.  She  was  glad  that  Franklin 
was  to  know,  from  Aunt  Grizel,  that  he,  himself,  was 
regretted.  So  that  she  said  "Yes;  I  'm  glad  you  can 
tell  him  that." 


316  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

It  was  at  this  moment  of  complete  understanding  that 
the  maid  came  in  and  said  that  Mr.  Digby  was  down 
stairs  and  wanted  to  see  Miss  Helen.  He  would  wait 
as  long  as  she  liked.  There  was  then  a  little  pause,  and 
Aunt  Grizel  saw  a  greater  weariness  pass  over  her 
niece's  face. 

"Very  well,"  she  spoke  for  her  to  the  maid.  "Tell 
Mr.  Digby  that  some  one  will  be  with  him  directly," 
and,  as  the  door  closed:  "You  're  not  fit  to  see  him 
this  morning,  Helen,"  she  said;  "not  fit  to  pour  balms 
into  his  wounds.  Let  me  do  it  for  you." 

Helen  lay  gazing  before  her,  and  she  was  still  silent. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  wanted;  but  she  did  know 
that  she  did  not  want  to  see  Gerald.  The  thought  of 
seeing  him  was  intolerable.  "Will  you  pour  balms?" 
she  said.  "I  'm  afraid  you  are  not  too  sorry  for  Ger 
ald." 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  'm  not,"  said  Aunt 
Grizel,  smiling  a  little  grimly.  "He  takes  things  too 
easily,  and  I  confess  that  it  does  rather  please  me  to 
see  him,  for  once  in  his  life,  'get  left.'  He  needed  to 
'get  left.'" 

"Well,  you  won't  tell  him  that,  if  I  let  you  go  to 
him  instead  of  me?  You  will  be  nice  to  him?" 

' '  Oh,  I  '11  be  nice  enough.     I  '11  condole  with  him. ' ' 

"Tell  him,"  said  Helen,  as  Aunt  Grizel  moved  reso 
lutely  to  the  door,  "that  I  can't  see  anybody;  not  for  a 
long  time.  I  shall  go  away  I  think." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MISS  GRIZEL  had  known  Gerald  all  his  life,  and 
yet  she  was  not  intimate  with  him,  and  during 
the  years  that  Helen  had  lived  with  her  she  had  come 
to  feel  a  certain  irritation  against  him.  Her  robust 
and  caustic  nature  had  known  no  touch  of  jealousy  for 
the  place  he  held  in  Helen's  life.  It  was  dispassion 
ately  that  she  observed,  and  resented  on  Helen's  ac 
count,  the  exacting  closeness  of  a  friendship  with  a 
man  who,  she  considered,  was  not  worth  so  much  time 
and  attention.  She  suspected  nothing  of  the  hidden 
realities  of  Helen's  feeling,  yet  she  did  suspect,  acutely, 
that,  had  it  not  been  for  Gerald,  Helen  might  have  had 
more  time  for  other  things.  It  was  Gerald  who  monopo 
lised  and  took  for  granted.  He  came,  and  Helen  was 
always  ready.  Miss  Grizel  had  not  liked  Gerald  to  be 
so  assured.  She  was  pleased,  now,  in  going  downstairs, 
that  Gerald  Digby  should  find,  for  once,  and  at  a  mo 
ment  of  real  need,  that  Helen  could  not  see  him. 

He  was  standing  before  the  fire,  his  eyes  on  the  door, 
and  as  she  looked  at  him  Miss  Grizel  experienced  a  cer 
tain  softening  of  mood.  She  decided  that  she  had,  to 
some  extent,  misjudged  Gerald;  he  had,  then,  capacity 
for  caring  deeply.  Miss-  Jakes 's  defection  had  knocked 
him  about  badly.  There  was  kindness  in  her  voice  as 
she  said:  ''Good  morning,"  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

But  Gerald  was  not  thinking  of  her  or  of  her  kind- 

317 


318  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ness.  "Where  is  Helen?"  he  asked,  shaking  and  then 
automatically  retaining  her  hand. 

"You  can't  see  Helen  to-day,"  said  Miss  Grizel,  a  lit 
tle  nettled  by  the  open  indifference.  "She  is  not  at  all 
well.  This  whole  affair,  as  you  may  imagine,  has  been 
singularly  painful  for  her  to  go  through.  She  asks  me 
to  tell  you  that  she  can  see  nobody  for  a  long  time. 
We  are  going  away;  we  are  going  to  the  Riviera,"  said 
Miss  Grizel,  making  the  resolve  on  the  spot. 

Gerald  held  her  hand  and  looked  at  her  with  a  fever 
ish  unseeing  gaze.  "I  must  see  Helen,"  he  said. 

"My  dear  Gerald,"  Miss  Grizel  disengaged  her  hand 
and  went  to  a  chair,  "this  really  isn't  an  occasion  for 
musts.  Helen  has  had  a  shock  as  well  as  you,  and  you 
certainly  shan't  see  her." 

"Does  she  say  I  shan't?" 

Miss  Grizel 's  smile  was  again  grim.  "She  says  you 
shan  't,  and  so  do  I.  She  's  not  fit  to  see  anybody. ' ' 

Gerald  looked  at  her  for  another  moment  and  then 
turned  to  the  writing-table.  "I  beg  your  pardon;  I 
don't  mean  to  be  rude.  Only  I  really  must  see  her. 
Do  you  mind  my  writing  a  line?  AA7ill  you  have  it 
taken  to  her?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Miss  Grizel,  compressing  her  lips. 

Gerald  sat  down  and  wrote,  quickly,  yet  carefully, 
pausing  between  the  sentences  and  fixing  the  same  un 
seeing  gaze  on  the  garden.  He  then  rose  and  gave  the 
note  to  Miss  Grizel,  who,  ringing,  gave  it  to  the  maid, 
after  which  she  and  Gerald  remained  sitting  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  room  in  absolute  silence  for  quite  a  long 
while. 

Gerald's   note   had   been  short.     "Don't   be   so   un- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  319 

speakably  cruel,"  it  ran,  without  preamble.  "You 
know,  don't  you,  that  it  has  all  turned  out  perfectly? 
Althea  has  thrown  me  over  and  taken  Kane.  I  've 
made  them  happy  at  all  events.  As  for  us — 0  Helen, 
you  must  see  me.  I  can't  wait.  I  can't  wait  for  an 
hour.  I  beseech  you  to  come.  Only  let  me  see 
you. — GERALD. 

To  this  appeal  the  maid  presently  brought  the  answer, 
which  Gerald,  oblivious  of  Miss  Grizel's  scrutiny,  tore 
open  and  read. 

"Don't  make  me  despise  you,  Gerald.  You  come  be 
cause  of  what  I  told  you  yesterday,  and  I  told  you 
because  it  was  over,  so  that  you  insult  me  by  coming. 
You  must  believe  me  when  I  say  that  it  is  over,  and 
until  you  can  meet  me  as  if  you  had  forgotten,  I  can 
not  see  you.  I  will  not  see  you  now.  I  do  not  want  to 
see  you. — HELEN." 

He  read  this,  and  Miss  Grizel  saw  the  blood  surge 
into  his  face.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  crumpled 
Helen's  note  in  his  fingers,  and  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow.  Again  Miss  Grizel  was  sorry  for  him,  though  with 
her  sympathy  there  mingled  satisfaction.  Presently 
Gerald  looked  at  her,  and  it  was  as  if  he  were,  at  last, 
aware  of  her.  He  looked  for  a  long  time,  and  suddenly, 
like  some  one  spent  and  indifferent,  he  said,  offering  his 
explanation:  "You  see — I  'm  in  love  with  Helen— 
and  she  won't  have  me." 

Miss  Grizel  gasped  and  gazed.  * '  In  love  with  Helen  ? 
You?"  she  repeated.  The  gold  locket  on  her  ample 
bosom  had  risen  with  her  astounded  breath. 

"Yes,"  said  Gerald,  "and  she  won't  have  me." 

"But  Miss  Jakes?"  said  Miss  Grizel. 


320  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"She  is  in  love  with  Kane,  and  Kane  with  her — as 
he  always  has  been,  you  know.  They  are  all  right. 
Everything  is  all  right,  except  Helen." 

A  queer  illumination  began  to  shoot  across  Miss 
Grizel's  stupor. 

"Perhaps  you  told  Helen  that  you  loved  her  before 
Miss  Jakes  threw  you  over.  Perhaps  you  told  Mr. 
Kane  that  Miss  Jakes  loved  him  before  she  threw  you 
over.  Perhaps  it  's  you  who  have  upset  the  apple 
cart." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Gerald,  gloomily,  but  without 
contrition.  "I  thought  it  would  bring  things  right  to 
have  the  facts  out.  It  has  brought  them  right — for 
Althea  and  Kane;  they  will  be  perfectly  happy  to 
gether.  ' ' 

This  simplicity,  in  the  face  of  her  own  deep  knowledge 
• — the  knowledge  she  had  built  on  in  sending  for  Frank 
lin  Kane  a  week  ago — roused  a  ruthless  ire  in  Miss 
Grizel.  "I  'm  afraid  you  've  let  your  own  wishes  sadly 
deceive  you,"  she  said.  "I  must  tell  you,  since  you 
evidently  don't  know  it,  that  Mr.  Kane  is  in  love  with 
Helen;  deeply  in  love  with  her.  From  what  I  under 
stand  of  the  situation  you  have  sacrificed  him  to  your 
own  feeling,  and  perhaps  sacrificed  Miss  Jakes  too;  but 
I  don't  go  into  that." 

It  was  now  Gerald 's  turn  to  gaze  and  gasp ;  he  did  not 
gasp,  however;  he  only  gazed;  gazed  with  a  gaze  no 
longer  inward  and  unseeing.  He  was,  at  last,  seeing 
everything.  He  fell  back  on  the  one  most  evident  thing 
he  saw,  and  had  from  the  beginning  seen.  "But  Helen 
— she  could  never  have  loved  him.  Such  a  marriage 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  321 

would  be  unfit  for  Helen.  I  'm  not  excusing  myself.  I 
see  I  've  been  an  unpardonable  fool  in  one  way. ' ' 

Miss  Grizel  's  ire  increased.  ' '  Unfit  for  Helen  ?  Why, 
pray?  He  would  have  given  her  the  position  of  a 
princess — in  our  funny  modern  sense.  I  intended,  and 
I  made  the  marriage.  I  saw  he  'd  fallen  in  love  with 
her — dear  little  man — though  at  the  time  he  didn't 
know  it  himself.  And  since  then  I  've  had  the  satis 
faction — one  of  the  greatest  of  my  life — of  seeing  how 
happy  I  had  made  both  of  them.  It  was  obvious, 
touchingly  so,  that  he  was  desperately  in  love  with 
Helen.  Yes,  Gerald,  don't  come  to  me  for  sympathy 
and  help.  You  've  wrecked  a  thing  I  had  set  my  heart 
on.  You  've  wrecked  Mr.  Kane,  and  my  opinion  is  that 
you  Ve  wrecked  Helen  too." 

Gerald,  who  had  become  very  pale,  kept  his  eyes  on 
her,  and  he  went  back  to  his  one  foothold  in  a  rocking 
world.  "Helen  could  never  have  loved  him." 

Miss  Grizel  shook  her  hand  impatiently  above  her 
knee.  "Love!  Love!  What  do  you  all  mean  with 
your  love,  I  'd  like  to  know?  What  's  this  sudden  love 
of  yours  for  Helen,  you  who,  until  yesterday,  were  will 
ing  to  marry  another  woman  for  her  money — or  were 
you  in  love  with  her  too  ?  What  's  Miss  Jakes 's  love  of 
Mr.  Kane,  who,  until  a  week  ago,  thought  herself  in 
love  with  you?  And  you  may  well  ask  me  what  is 
Mr.  Kane's  love  of  Helen,  who,  until  a  week  ago, 
thought  himself  in  love  with  Miss  Jakes?  But  there  I 
answer  you  that  he  is  the  only  one  of  you  who  seems 
to  me  to  know  what  love  is.  One  can  respect  his  feel 
ing;  it  means  more  than  himself  and  his  own  emotions. 


322  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

It  means  something  solid  and  dependable.  Helen 
recognised  it,  and  Helen's  feeling  for  him — though  it 
certainly  wasn't  love  in  your  foolish  sense — was  some 
thing  that  she  valued  more  than  anything  you  can  have 
to  offer  her.  And  I  repeat,  though  I  'm  sorry  to  pain 
you,  that  it  is  clear  to  me  that  you  have  wrecked  her 
life  as  well  as  Mr.  Kane's." 

Miss  Grizel  had  had  her  say.  She  stood  up,  her  lips 
compressed,  her  eyes  weighty  with  their  hard,  good 
sense.  And  Gerald  rose,  too.  He  was  at  a  disad 
vantage,  and  an  unfair  one,  but  he  did  not  think  of 
that.  He  thought,  with  stupefaction,  of  what  he  had 
done  in  this  room  the  day  before  to  Franklin  and  to 
Helen.  In  the  depths  of  his  heart  he  couldn't  wish  it 
undone,  for  he  couldn't  conceive  of  himself  now  as 
married  to  Althea,  nor  could  he,  in  spite  of  Miss  Grizel's 
demonstrations,  conceive  of  Helen  as  married  to  Frank 
lin  Kane.  But  with  all  the  depths  of  his  heart  he 
wished  what  he  had  done,  done  differently.  And  al 
though  he  couldn't  conceive  of  Helen  as  married  to 
Franklin  Kane,  although  he  couldn't  accept  Miss 
Grizel's  account  of  her  state  as  final,  nor  believe  her 
really  wrecked — since,  after  all,  she  loved  him,  not 
Franklin — he  could  clearly  conceive  from  Miss  Grizel's 
words  that  by  doing  it  as  he  had,  he  had  wrecked  many 
things  and  endangered  many.  "What  these  things  were 
her  words  only  showed  him  confusedly,  and  his  clearest 
impulse  now  was  to  see  just  what  they  were,  to  see  just 
what  he  had  done.  Miss  Grizel  couldn't  show  him, 
for  Miss  Grizel  didn't  know  the  facts;  Helen  would  not 
show  him,  she  refused  to  see  him;  his  mind  leaped  at 
once,  as  he  rose  and  stood  looking  rather  dazedly  about 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  323 

before  going,  to  Franklin  Kane.  Kane,  as  he  had  said 
yesterday,  was  the  one  person  in  the  world  before  whom 
one  could  have  such  things  out.  Even  though  he  had 
wrecked  Kane,  Kane  was  still  the  only  person  he  could 
turn  to.  And  since  he  had  wrecked  him  in  his  igno 
rance  he  felt  that  now,  in  his  enlightenment,  he  owed 
him  something  infinitely  delicate  and  infinitely  deep  in 
the  way  of  apology. 

"Well,  thank  you,"  he  said,  grasping  Miss  Grizel's 
hand.  "You  had  to  say  it,  and  it  had  to  be  said.  Good 
bye." 

Miss  Grizel,  not  displeased  with  his  fashion  of  taking 
her  chastisement,  returned  his  grasp.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"you  couldn't  go  on  as  you  were.  But  all  the  same, 
I  'm  sorry  for  you." 

"Oh,"  Gerald  smiled  a  little.  "I  don't  suppose 
you  've  much  left  for  me,  and  no  wonder." 

' '  Oh,  yes,  I  Ve  plenty  left  for  you, ' '  said  Miss  Grizel. 
And,  in  thinking  over  his  expression  as  he  had  left  her, 
the  smile,  its  self-mockery,  yet  its  lack  of  bitterness,  his 
courage  and  yet  the  frankness  of  his  disarray,  she  felt 
that  she  liked  Gerald  more  than  she  had  ever  liked 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

'"TIT THY,    yes,    of    course    I  can    see    you.     Do    sit 

f  V     down. ' '     Franklin  spoke  gravely,  scanning  his 

visitor's  face  while  he  moved  piles  of  pamphlets  from 

a  chair  and  pushed  aside  the  books  and  papers  spread 

before  him  on  the  table. 

Gerald  had  found  him,  after  a  fruitless  morning  call, 
at  his  lodgings  in  Clarges  Street,  and  Franklin,  in 
the  dim  little  sitting-room,  had  risen  from  the  work 
that,  for  hours,  had  given  him  a  feeling  of  anchorage 
— not  too  secure — in  a  world  where  many  of  his  bear 
ings  were  painfully  confused.  Seeing  him  so  occupied, 
Gerald,  in  the  doorway,  had  hesitated:  "Am  I  inter 
rupting  you  ?  Shall  I  come  another  time  ?  I  want  very 
much  to  see  you,  if  I  may."  And  Franklin  had  replied 
with  his  quick  reassurance,  too  kindly  for  coldness,  yet 
too  grave  for  cordiality. 

Gerald  sat  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  table  and 
glanced  at  the  array  of  papers  spread  upon  it.  They 
gave  him  a  further  sense  of  being  beyond  his  depth. 
It  was  like  seeing  suddenly  the  whole  bulk  of  some 
ocean  craft,  of  which  before  one  had  noticed  only  the 
sociable  and  very  insignificant  decks  and  riggings,  lifted, 
for  one's  scientific  edification,  in  its  docks.  All  the 
laborious,  underlying  meaning  of  Franklin's  life  was 
symbolised  in  these  neat  papers  and  heavy  books. 
Gerald  tried  to  remember,  with  only  partial  success, 

324 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  325 

what  Franklin's  professional  interests  were;  people's 
professional  interests  had  rarely  engaged  his  atten 
tion.  It  was  queer  to  realise  that  the  greater  part  of 
Franklin  Kane's  life  was  something  entirely  alien  from 
his  own  imagination,  and  Gerald  felt,  as  we  have 
said,  beyond  his  depth  in  realising  it.  Yet  the  fact 
of  a  significance  he  had  no  power  of  gauging  did  not 
disconcert  him;  he  was  quite  willing  to  swim  as  best 
he  could  and  even  to  splash  grotesquely;  quite  willing 
to  show  Franklin  Kane  that  he  was  very  helpless  and 
very  ignorant,  and  could  only  appeal  for  mercy. 

"Please  be  patient  with  me  if  I  make  mistakes,"  he 
said.  "I  probably  shall  make  mistakes;  please  bear 
with  me." 

Franklin,  laying  one  pamphlet  on  another,  did  not 
reply  to  this,  keeping  only  his  clear,  kind  gaze  re- 
sponsively  on  the  other's  face. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Gerald,  looking  down  and 
reaching  out  for  a  thick  blue  pencil  which  he  seemed 
to  examine  while  he  spoke,  "I  must  ask  your  pardon. 
I  made  a  terrible  fool  of  myself  yesterday  afternoon. 
As  you  said,  there  were  so  many  things  I  didn't  see.  I 
do  see  them  now." 

He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  pencil,  and  Franklin, 
after  meeting  them  for  a  moment,  said  gently:  "Well, 
there  isn  't  much  good  in  looking  at  them,  is  there  ?  As 
for  asking  my  pardon — you  couldn't  have  helped  not 
knowing  those  things." 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  guessed  them,  but  I  didn't. 
I  was  able  to  play  the  fool  in  perfect  good  faith. ' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that;  I  don't  know  that 
you  played  the  fool,"  said  Franklin. 


326  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"My  second  point  is  this,"  said  Gerald.  "Of  course 
I  'm  not  going  to  pretend  anything.  You  know  that 
I  love  Helen  and  that  I  believe  she  loves  me,  and  that 
for  that  reason  I  've  a  right  to  seem  silly  and  fatuous 
and  do  my  best  to  get  her.  I  quite  see  what  you  must 
both  of  you  have  thought  of  me  yesterday.  I  quite  see 
that  she  couldn't  stand  my  blindness — to  all  you  meant 
and  felt,  you  know,  and  then  my  imagining  that  every 
thing  could  be  patched  up  between  her  and  me.  She 
wants  me  to  feel  my  folly  to  the  full,  and  no  wonder. 
But  that  sort  of  bitterness  would  have  to  go  down  where 
people  love — wouldn't  it?  it  's  something  that  can  be 
got  over.  But  that  's  what  I  want  to  ask  you;  per 
haps  I  'm  more  of  a  fool  than  I  yet  know ;  perhaps  what 
her  aunt  tells  me  is  true;  perhaps  I  've  wrecked  Helen 
as  well  as  wrecked  you.  It  's  a  very  queer  question 
to  ask — and  you  must  forgive  me — no  one  can  answer  it 
but  you,  except  Helen,  and  Helen  won't  see  me.  Do 
you  really  think  I  have  wrecked  her  ? ' ' 

Everybody  seemed  to  be  asking  this  question  of  poor 
Franklin.  He  gave  it  his  attention  in  this,  its  new 
application,  and  before  answering,  he  asked : 

"What  's  happened  since  I  saw  you?" 

Gerald  informed  him  of  the  events  of  the  morning. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Franklin,  reflecting,  "that  you 
shouldn't  have  gone  so  soon.  You  ought  to  have  given 
her  more  time  to  adjust  herself.  It  looked  a  little  too 
sure,  didn't  it?  as  if  you  felt  that  now  that  you  'd  set 
tled  matters  satisfactorily  you  could  come  and  claim 
her." 

"I  know  now  what  it  looked  like,"  said  Gerald;  "but, 
you  see,  I  didn't  know  this  morning.  And  I  was  sure, 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  327 

I  am  sure,"  he  said,  fixing  his  charming  eyes  sadly  and 
candidly  upon  Franklin,  "that  Helen  and  I  belong  to 
one  another." 

Franklin  continued  to  reflect.  "Well,  yes,  I  under 
stand  that, ' '  he  said.  ' '  But  how  can  you  make  her  feel 
it?  Why  weren't  you  sure  long  ago?" 

"Oh,  you  ask  me  again  why  I  was  a  fool,"  said 
Gerald  gloomily,  "and  I  can  only  reply  that  Helen  was 
too  clever.  After  all,  falling  in  love  is  suddenly  seeing 
something  and  wanting  something,  isn't  it?  Well, 
Helen  never  let  me  see  and  never  let  me  want. ' ' 

"Yes,  that  's  just  the  trouble.  She  's  let  you  see,  so 
that  you  do  want,  now.  But  that  can't  be  very  satis 
factory  to  her,  can  it?"  said  Franklin,  with  all  his  im 
partiality. 

"Of  course  it  can't!"  said  Gerald,  with  further  gloom. 
"And  don't,  please,  imagine  that  I  'm  idiotic  enough  to 
think  myself  satisfactory.  My  only  point  is  that  I  be 
long  to  her,  unsatisfactory  as  I  am,  and  that,  unless 
I  've  really  wrecked  her,  and  myself — I  must  be  able 
to  make  her  feel  that  it  's  her  point  too ;  that  other 
things  can't  really  count,  finally,  beside  it.  Have  I 
wrecked  her?"  Gerald  repeated.  "I  mean,  would  she 
have  been  really  happier  with  you?  Forgive  me  for 
asking  you  such  a  question. ' ' 

Franklin  again  resumed  his  occupation  of  laying  the 
pamphlets  of  one  pile  neatly  upon  those  of  the  other. 
He  had  all  his  air  of  impartial  reflection,  yet  his  hand 
trembled  a  little,  and  Gerald,  noticing  this,  murmured 
again,  turning  away  his  eyes:  "Forgive  me.  Please 
understand.  I  must  know  what  I  've  done. ' ' 

"You  see,"  said  Franklin,  after  a  further  silence, 


328  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

while  he  continued  to  transfer  the  pamphlets;  "quite 
apart  from  my  own  feelings — which  do,  I  suppose,  make 
it  a  difficult  question  to  answer — I  really  don't  know 
how  to  answer,  because  what  I  feel  is  that  the  answer 
depends  on  you.  I  mean,"  said  Franklin,  glancing  up, 
"do  you  love  her  most,  or  do  I?  And  even  beyond 
that — because,  of  course,  the  man  who  loved  her  least 
might  make  her  happiest  if  she  loved  him — have  you 
got  it  in  you  to  give  her  life?  Have  you  got  it  in 
you  to  give  her  something  beyond  yourself  to  live  for? 
Helen  doesn't  love  me,  she  never  could  have  loved  me, 
and  I  believe,  with  you,  that  she  loves  you;  but  even 
so  it  's  quite  possible  that  in  the  long  run  I  might  have 
made  her  happier  than  you  can,  unless  you  have — in 
yourself — more  to  make  her  happy  with." 

Gerald  gazed  at  Franklin,  and  Franklin  gazed  back 
at  him.  In  Gerald's  face  a  flush  slowly  mounted,  a 
vivid  flush,  sensitive  and  suffering  as  a  young  girl's. 
And  as  if  Franklin  had  borne  a  mild  but  effulgent 
light  into  the  innermost  chambers  of  his  heart,  and 
made  self-contemplation  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
perhaps,  real  to  him,  he  said  in  a  gentle  voice :  ' '  I  'm 
afraid  you  're  making  me  hopeless.  I  'm  afraid  I  've 
nothing  to  give  Helen — beyond  myself.  I  'm  a  worth 
less  fellow,  really,  you  know.  I  've  never  made  any 
thing  of  myself  or  taken  anything  seriously  at  all. 
So  how  can  Helen  take  me  seriously?  Yes,  I  see  it, 
and  I  Ve  robbed  her  of  everything.  Only,"  said 
Gerald,  leaning  forward  with  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  his  forehead  on  his  hands,  while  he  tried  to  think 
it  out,  ' '  it  is  serious,  now,  you  know.  It  's  really  serious 
at  last.  I  would  try  to  give  her  something  beyond 


329 

myself  and  to  make  things  worth  while  for  her — I  see 
what  you  mean;  but  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  make  her  believe  it  now." 

They  sat  thus  for  a  long  time  in  silence — Gerald  with 
his  head  leant  on  his  hands,  Franklin  looking  at  him 
quietly  and  thoughtfully.  And  as  a  result  of  long  re 
flection,  he  said  at  last;  "If  she  loves  you  still,  you 
won't  have  to  try  to  make  her  believe  it.  I  'd  like  to 
believe  it,  and  so  would  you — but  if  Helen  loves  you, 
she  '11  take  you  for  yourself,  of  course.  The  question 
is,  does  she  love  you?  Does  she  love  you  enough,  I 
mean,  to  want  to  mend  and  grow  again?  Perhaps  it  's 
that  way  you  've  wrecked  her;  perhaps  it  's  withered 
her — going  on  for  all  these  years  caring,  while  you 
didn't  see  and  want." 

From  behind  his  hands  Gerald  made  a  vague  sound  of 
acquiescent  distress.  "What  shall  I  do?"  he  then 
articulated.  "She  won't  see  me.  She  says  she  won't 
see  me  until  I  can  meet  her  as  if  I  'd  forgotten.  It  isn  't 
with  Helen  the  sort  of  thing  it  would  mean  with  most 
women.  She  's  not  saving  her  dignity  by  threats  and 
punishments  she  won't  hold  to.  Helen  always  means 
what  she  says — horribly." 

Franklin  contemplated  the  bent  head.  Gerald's  thick 
hair,  disordered  by  the  long,  fine  fingers  that  ran  up 
into  it;  Gerald's  attitude  sitting  there,  miserable,  yet 
not  undignified,  helpless,  yet  not  humble;  Gerald's 
whole  personality,  its  unused  strength,  its  secure  sweet 
ness,  affected  him  strangely.  He  didn't  feel  near 
Gerald  as  he  had,  in  a  sense,  felt  near  Helen.  They 
were  aliens,  and  would  remain  so;  but  he  felt  tenderly 
towards  him.  And,  even  while  it  inflicted  a  steady, 


330  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

probing  wound  to  recognise  it,  he  recognised,  pro 
foundly,  sadly,  and  finally,  that  Gerald  and  Helen  did 
belong  to  each  other,  by  an  affinity  deeper  than  moral 
standards  and  immeasurable  by  the  test  of  happiness. 
Helen  had  been  right  to  love  him  all  her  life.  He  felt 
as  if  he,  from  his  distance,  loved  him,  for  himself,  and 
because  he  was  loveable.  And  he  wanted  Helen  to  take 
Gerald.  He  was  sure,  now,  that  he  wanted  it. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  in  his  voice  of  mild,  fraternal 
deliberation,  "I  don't  know  whether  it  will  do  much 
good,  but  we  '11  try  it.  Helen  has  a  very  real  feeling 
for  me,  you  know;  Helen  likes  me  and  thinks  of  me  as 
a  true  friend.  I  'm  certainly  not  satisfactory  to  her," 
and  Franklin  smiled  a  little;  "but  all  the  same  she  's 
very  fond  of  me;  she  'd  do  a  lot  to  please  me;  I  'm 
sure  of  it.  So  how  would  it  be  if  I  wrote  to  her  and 
put  things  to  her,  you  know  ? ' ' 

Gerald  raised  his  head  and  looked  over  the  table 
across  the  piled  pamphlets  at  Franklin.  For  a  long 
time  he  looked  at  him,  and  presently  Franklin  saw  that 
tears  had  mounted  to  his  eyes.  The  emotion  that  he 
felt  to  be  so  unusual,  communicated  itself  to  him.  He 
really  hadn't  known  till  he  saw  Gerald  Digby's  eyes 
fill  with  tears  what  his  own  emotion  was.  It  surged 
up  in  him  suddenly,  blotting  out  Gerald's  face,  over 
powering  the  long  resistance  of  his  trained  control ;  and 
it  was  with  an  intolerable  sense  of  loss  and  desolation 
that,  knowing  that  he  loved  Gerald  and  that  Gerald's 
tears  were  a  warrant  for  his  loveableness  and  for  the 
workings  of  fate  against  himself,  he  put  his  head  down 
on  his  arms  and,  not  sobbing,  not  weeping,  yet  over 
come,  he  let  the  waves  of  his  sorrow  meet  over  him. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  331 

He  did  not  know,  then,  what  he  thought  or  felt.  All 
that  he  was  conscious  of  was  the  terrible  submerging  of 
will  and  thought  and  the  engulfing  sense  of  desolation; 
and  all  that  he  seemed  to  hear  was  the  sound  of  his  own 
heart  beating  the  one  lovely  and  agonising  word: 
' '  Helen— Helen— Helen ! ' ' 

He  was  aware  at  last,  dimly,  that  Gerald  had  moved, 
had  come  round  the  table,  and  was  leaning  on  it  beside 
him.  Then  Gerald  put  his  hand  on  Franklin's  hand. 
The  touch  drew  him  up  out  of  his  depths.  He  raised 
his  head,  keeping  his  face  hidden,  and  he  clasped  Ger 
ald's  hand  for  a  moment.  Then  Gerald  said  brokenly: 
"You  mustn't  write.  You  mustn't  do  anything  for 
me.  You  must  let  me  take  my  own  chances — and  if 
I  've  none  left,  it  will  be  what  I  deserve." 

These  words,  like  air  breathed  in  after  long  suffoca 
tion  under  water,  cleared  Franklin's  mind.  He  shook 
his  head,  and  he  found  Gerald's  hand  again  while  he 
said,  able  now,  as  the  light  grew  upon  him,  to  think: 

' '  I  want  to  write.  I  want  you  to  have  all  the  chances 
you  can." 

"I  don't  deserve  them,"  said  Gerald. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Franklin,  "I  don't 
know  about  that  at  all.  And  besides" — and  now  he 
found  something  of  his  old  whimsicality  to  help  his 
final  argument — "let  's  say,  if  you  'd  rather,  that  Helen 
deserves  them.  Let  's  say  that  it  's  for  Helen's  sake 
that  I  want  you  to  have  every  chance." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

HELEN  received  Franklin's  letter  by  the  first  post 
next  morning.     She  read  it  in  bed  where  she  had 
remained  ever  since  parting  from  him,  lying  there  with 
closed  eyes  in  the  drowsy  apathy  that  had  fallen  upon 
her. 

"DEAR  HELEN," — Franklin  wrote,  and  something  in 
the  writing  pained  her  even  before  she  read  the  words 
— "Gerald  Digby  has  been  with  me  here.  Your  aunt 
has  been  telling  him  things.  He  knows  that  I  care  for 
you  and  what  it  all  meant  yesterday.  It  has  been  a 
very  painful  experience  for  him,  as  you  may  imagine, 
and  the  way  he  took  it  made  me  like  him  very  much. 
It  's  because  of  that  that  I  'm  writing  to  you  now.  The 
thing  that  tormented  me  most  was  the  idea  that,  perhaps, 
with  all  my  deficiencies,  I  could  give  you  more  than  he 
could.  I  hadn't  a  very  high  opinion  of  him,  you  know. 
I  felt  you  might  be  safer  with  me.  But  now,  from  what 
I  Ve  seen,  I  'm  sure  that  he  is  the  man  for  you.  I  un 
derstand  how  you  could  have  loved  him  for  all  your 
life.  He  's  not  as  big  as  you  are,  nor  as  strong;  he 
hasn  't  your  character ;  but  you  '11  make  him  grow — and 
no  one  else  can,  for  he  loves  you  with  his  whole  heart, 
and  he's  a  broken  man. 

' '  Dear  Helen,  I  know  what  it  feels  like  now.  You  're 
withered  and  burnt  out.  It  's  lasted  too  long  to  be 

332 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  333 

felt  any  longer  and  you  believe  it  's  dead.  But  it  isn't 
dead,  Helen;  I  'm  sure  it  isn't.  Things  like  that  don't 
die  unless  something  else  comes  to  take  their  place. 
It  's  withered,  but  it  will  grow  again.  See  him;  be 
Ivlnd  to  him,  and  you  '11  find  out.  And  even  if  you 
can't  find  out  yet,  even  if  you  think  it  's  all  over,  look 
at  it  this  way.  You  know  our  talk  about  marriage  and 
how  you  were  willing  to  marry  me,  not  loving  me ;  well, 
look  at  it  this  way,  for  his  sake,  and  for  mine.  He  needs 
you  more  than  anything;  he  '11  be  nothing,  or  less  and 
less,  without  you;  with  you  he  '11  be  more  and  more. 
Think  of  his  life.  You  've  got  responsibility  for  that, 
Helen;  you  've  let  him  depend  on  you  always — and 
you  've  got  responsibility,  too,  for  what  's  happened 
now.  You  told  him — I  'm  not  blaming  you — I  under 
stand — I  think  you  were  right;  but  you  changed  things 
for  him  and  made  him  see  what  he  hadn't  seen  before; 
nothing  can  ever  be  the  same  for  him  again ;  you  mustn  't 
forget  that;  your  friendship  is  spoiled  for  him,  after 
what  you  've  done.  So  at  the  very  least  you  can  feel 
sorry  for  him  and  feel  like  a  mother  to  him,  and  marry 
him  for  that — as  lots  of  women  do. 

"Now  I  'm  going  to  be  very  egotistical,  but  you  '11 
know  why.  Think  of  my  life,  dear  Helen.  We  won't 
hide  from  what  we  know.  We  know  that  I  love  you  and 
that  to  give  you  up — even  if,  in  a  way,  I  had  to — was 
the  greatest  sacrifice  of  my  life.  Now,  what  I  put  to 
you  is  this :  Is  it  going  to  be  for  nothing — I  mean  for 
nothing  where  you  are  concerned?  If  I  'm  to  think  of 
you  going  on  alone  with  your  heart  getting  harder  and 
drier  every  year,  and  everything  tender  and  trustful 
dying  out  of  you — I  don 't  see  how  I  can  bear  it. 


334  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"So  what  I  ask  you  is  to  try  to  be  happy;  what  I 
ask  you  is  to  try  to  make  him  happy;  just  look  at  it 
like  that;  try  to  make  him  happy  and  to  help  him  to 
grow  to  be  a  fine,  big  person,  and  then  you  '11  find  out 
that  you  are  growing,  too,  in  all  sorts  of  ways  you 
never  dreamed  of. 

"When  you  get  this,  write  to  him  and  tell  him  that 
he  may  come.  And  when  he  is  with  you,  be  kind  to 
him.  Oh — my  dear  Helen — I  do  beg  it  of  you.  Put 
it  like  this — be  kind  to  me  and  try. — Your  affection 
ate  FRANKLIN." 

"When  Helen  had  read  this  letter  she  did  not  weep, 
but  she  felt  as  if  some  hurt,  almost  deeper  than  she 
could  endure,  was  being  inflicted  on  her.  It  had  begun 
with  the  first  sight  of  Franklin's  letter;  the  writing  of 
it  had  looked  like  hard,  steady  breathing  over  some 
heart-arresting  pain.  Franklin's  suffering  flowed  into 
her  from  every  gentle,  careful  sentence ;  and  to  Helen, 
so  unaware,  till  now,  of  any  one's  suffering  but  her 
own,  this  sharing  of  Franklin's  was  an  experience  new 
and  overpowering.  No  tears  came,  while  she  held  the 
letter  and  looked  before  her  intently,  and  it  was  not  as 
if  her  heart  softened;  but  it  seemed  to  widen,  as  if 
some  greatness,  irresistible  and  grave,  forced  a  way  into 
it.  It  widened  to  Franklin,  to  the  thought  of  Franklin 
and  to  Franklin's  suffering;  its  sorrow  and  its  com 
passion  were  for  Franklin;  and  as  it  received  and  en 
shrined  him,  it  shut  Gerald  out.  There  was  no  room 
for  Gerald  in  her  heart. 

She  would  do  part  of  what  Franklin  asked  of  her, 
of  course.  She  would  see  Gerald;  she  would  be  kind 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  335 

to  him;  she  would  even  try  to  feel  for  him.  But  the 
effort  was  easy  because  she  was  sure  that  it  would  be 
fruitless.  For  Gerald,  she  was  withered  and  burned 
out.  If  she  were  to  "grow" — dear,  funny  phrases, 
even  in  her  extremity,  Helen  could  smile  over  them; 
even  though  she  loved  dear  Franklin  and  enshrined 
him,  his  phrases  would  always  seem  funny  to  her — 
but  if  she  were  to  grow  it  must  be  for  Franklin,  and 
in  a  different  way  from  what  he  asked.  She  would  in 
deed  try  not  to  become  harder  and  drier;  she  would 
try  to  make  of  her  life  something  not  too  alien  from 
his  ideal  for  her;  she  would  try  to  pursue  the  just  and 
the  beautiful.  But  to  rekindle  the  burned-out  fires  of 
her  love  was  a  miracle  that  even  Franklin's  love  and 
Franklin's1  suffering  could  not  perform,  and  as  for 
marrying  Gerald  in  order  to  be  a  mother  to  him,  she 
did  not  feel  it  possible,  even  for  Franklin's  sake,  to 
assume  that  travesty. 

It  was  at  five  o'clock  that  she  asked  Gerald  to  come 
and  see  her.  She  went  down  to  him  in  her  sitting- 
room,  when,  on  the  stroke  of  the  clock,  he  was  an 
nounced.  She  felt  that  it  required  no  effort  to  meet 
him,  beyond  the  forcing  of  her  weariness. 

Gerald  was  standing  before  the  fire,  and  in  looking 
at  him,  as  she  entered  and  closed  the  door,  she  was 
aware  of  a  little  sense  of  surprise.  She  had  not  ex 
pected  to  find  him,  since  the  crash  of  Aunt  Grizel's 
revelations,  as  fatuous  as  the  day  before  yesterday;  nor 
had  she  expected  the  boyish  sulkiness  of  that  day's 
earlier  mood.  She  expected  change  and  the  signs  of  dis 
comfort  and  distress.  It  was  this  haggard  brightness 
for  which  she  was  unprepared.  He  looked  as  if  he 


336  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

hadn't  slept  or  eaten,  and  under  jaded  eyelids  his  eyes 
had  the  sparkling  fever  of  insomnia. 

Helen  felt  that  she  could  thoroughly  carry  out  the 
first  of  Franklin's  requests;  she  could  be  kind  and  she 
could  be  sorry;  yes,  Gerald  was  very  unhappy;  it  was 
strange  to  think  of,  and  pitiful. 

"Have  you  had  any  tea?"  she  asked  him,  giving  him 
her  hand,  which  he  pressed  mechanically. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Gerald. 

"Do  have  some.    You  look  hungry." 

"I  'm  not  hungry,  thanks."  He  was  neither  hostile 
nor  pleading;  he  only  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with 
bright  watchfulness,  rather  as  a  patient's  eyes  watch 
the  doctor  who  is  to  pronounce  a  verdict,  and  Helen, 
with  all  her  kindness,  felt  a  little  irked  and  ill  at  ease 
before  his  gaze. 

"You  've  heard  from  Kane?"  Gerald  said,  after  a 
pause.  Helen  had  taken  her  usual  place  in  the  low 
chair. 

"Yes,  this  morning." 

' '  And  that  's  why  you  sent  for  me  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Helen,  "he  asked  me  to." 

Gerald  looked  down  into  the  fire.  "I  can't  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  him.  You  can't  care  to  hear,  of  course. 
You  know  what  I  've  done  to  him,  and  that  must  make 
you  feel  that  I  'm  not  the  person  to  talk  about  him. 
But  I  've  never  met  any  one  so  good." 

' '  He  is  good.  I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  it.  He  is  the 
best  person  I  Ve  ever  met,  too,"  said  Helen.  "As  for 
what  you  did  to  him,  you  didn't  know  what  you  were 
doing." 

"I  don't  think  that  stupidity  is  any  excuse.     I  ought 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  337 

to  have  felt  he  couldn't  be  near  you  like  that,  and  not 
love  you.  I  robbed  him  of  you,  didn't  I?  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  what  I  did,  you  would  have  married  him,  all 
the  same — in  spite  of  what  you  told  me,  I  mean." 

Helen  had  coloured  a  little,  and  after  a  pause  in 
which  she  thought  over  his  words  she  said:  "Yes,  of 
course  I  would  have  married  him  all  the  same.  But  it 
was  really  I,  in  what  I  told  you,  who  brought  it  upon 
myself  and  upon  Franklin." 

For  a  little  while  there  was  silence  and  then  Gerald 
said,  delicately,  yet  with  a  directness  that  showed  he 
took  for  granted  in  her  a  detached  candour  equal  to 
his  own.  "I  think  I  asked  it  stupidly.  I  suppose  the 
thing  I  can't  even  yet  realise  is  that,  in  a  way,  I  robbed 
you  too.  I  've  robbed  you  of  everything,  haven't  I, 
Helen?" 

"Not  of  everything,"  said  Helen,  glad  really  of  the 
small  consolation  she  could  offer  him.  ' '  Not  of  financial 
safety,  as  it  happens.  It  will  make  you  less  unhappy 
to  hear,  so  I  must  tell  you,  Franklin  is  arranging  things 
with  Aunt  Grizel  so  that  when  she  dies  I  shall  come  into 
quite  a  nice  little  bit  of  money.  I  shall  have  no  more 
sordid  worries.  In  that  way  you  mustn't  have  me  on 
your  conscience." 

Gerald's  eyes  were  on  her  and  they  took  in  this  fact 
of  her  safety  with  no  commotion;  it  was  but  one — and 
a  lesser — among  the  many  strange  facts  he  had  had  to 
take  in.  And  he  forced  himself  to  look  squarely  at  what 
he  had  conceived  to  be  the  final  impossibility  as  he 
asked :  ' '  And — in  other  ways  ? — Could  you  have  fallen 
in  love  with  him,  Helen  ? ' ' 

It  was  so  bad,  so  inconceivably  bad  a  thing  to  face, 


338  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

that  his  relief  was  like  a  joy  when  Helen  answered. 
"No,  I  could  never  have  fallen  in  love  with  dear 
Franklin.  But  I  cared  for  him  very  much,  the  more, 
no  doubt,  from  having  ceased  to  care  about  love.  I 
felt  that  he  was  the  best  person,  the  truest,  the  dearest, 
I  had  ever  known,  and  that  we  would  make  a  success  of 
our  life  together." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  Gerald  hastened  past  her 
qualifications  to  the  one  liberating  fact.  "Two  people 
like  you  would  have  had  to.  But  you  didn't  love  him; 
you  couldn't  have  come  to  love  him.  I  haven't  robbed 
you  of  a  man  you  could  have  loved." 

She  saw  his  immense  relief.  The  joy  of  it  was  in  his 
eyes  and  voice;  and  the  thought  of  Franklin,  of  what 
she  had  not  been  able  to  do  for  Franklin,  made  it  bitter 
to  her  that  because  she  had  not  been  able  to  save  Frank 
lin,  Gerald  should  find  relief. 

"You  couldn't  have  robbed  me  of  him  if  there  'd 
been  any  chance  of  that,"  she  said.  "If  there  had 
been  any  chance  of  my  loving  Franklin  I  would  never 
have  let  him  go.  Don't  be  glad,  don't  show  me  that  you 
are  glad — because  I  didn't  love  him." 

"I  can't  help  being  glad,  Helen,"  he  said. 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  covering  her  eyes. 
While  he  was  there,  showing  her  that  he  was  glad  be 
cause  she  had  not  loved  Franklin,  she  could  not  be  kind, 
nor  even  just  to  him. 

' '  Helen, ' '  he  said,  ' '  I  know  what  you  are  feeling ;  but 
will  you  listen  to  me?"  She  answered  that  she  would 
listen  to  anything  he  had  to  say,  and  her  voice  had  the 
leaden  tone  of  impersonal  charity. 

"Helen,"  Gerald  said,  "I  know  how  I  've  blundered. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  339 

I  see  everything.  But,  with  it  all,  seeing  it  all,  I  don't 
think  that  you  are  fair  to  me.  I  don't  think  it  is  fair 
if  you  can't  see  that  I  couldn't  have  thought  of  all 
these  other  possibilities — after  what  you  'd  told  me — 
the  other  day.  How  could  I  think  of  anything,  then, 
but  the  one  thing — that  you  loved  me  and  that  I  loved 
you,  and  that,  of  course,  I  must  set  my  mistake  right  at 
once,  set  Althea  free  and  come  to  you?  I  was  very 
simple  and  very  stupid ;  but  I  don 't  think  it  's  fair  not 
to  see  that  I  couldn't  believe  you  'd  really  repulse  me, 
finally,  if  you  loved  me." 

"You  ought  to  have  believed  it,"  Helen  said,  still 
with  her  covered  eyes.  "That  is  what  is  most  simple, 
most  stupid  in  you.  You  ought  to  have  felt — and  you 
ought  to  feel  now — that  to  a  woman  who  could  tell  you 
what  I  did,  everything  is  over." 

"But,  Helen,  that  's  my  point,"  ever  so  carefully  and 
patiently  he  insisted.  "How  can  it  be  over  when  I 
love  you — if  you  still  love  me  ? " 

She  put  down  her  hand  now  and  looked  up  at  him 
and  she  saw  his  hope;  not  yet  dead;  sick,  wounded, 
perplexed,  but,  in  his  care  and  patience,  vigilant.  And 
it  was  with  a  sad  wonder  for  the  truth  of  her  own  words, 
that  she  said,  looking  up  at  the  face  dear  beyond  all 
telling  for  so  many  years,  "I  don't  want  you,  Gerald. 
I  don't  want  your  love.  I  'm  not  blaming  you.  I  am 
fair  to  you.  I  see  that  you  couldn't  help  it,  and  that  it 
was  my  fault  really.  But  you  are  asking  for  some 
thing  that  isn't  there  any  longer." 

"You  mean,"  said  Gerald,  he  was  very  pale,  "that 
I  've  won  no  rights ;  you  don 't  want  a  man  who  has  won 
no  rights." 


340  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"There  are  no  rights  to  win,  Gerald." 
"Because  of  what  I  've  done  to  him?" 
"Perhaps;  but  I  don't  think  it  's  that." 
"Because  of  what  I  've  done  to  you — not  seeing — 
all  our  lives?" 

"Perhaps,  Gerald.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  tell  you, 
for  I  don't  know  myself.  I  don't  think  anything  has 
been  killed.  I  think  something  is  dead  that  's  been 
dying  by  inches  for  years.  Don't  press  me  any  more. 
Accept  the  truth.  It  's  all  over.  I  don't  want  you  any 
longer. ' ' 

Helen  had  risen  while  she  spoke  and  kept  her  eyes 
on  Gerald's  in  speaking.  Until  this  moment,  for  all 
his  pain  and  perplexity,  he  had  not  lost  hope.  He  had 
been  amazed  and  helpless  and  full  of  fear,  but  he  had 
not  believed,  not  really  believed,  that  she  was  lost  to 
him.  Now,  she  saw  it  in  his  eyes,  he  did  believe;  and 
as  the  patient,  hearing  his  sentence,  gazes  dumb  and 
stricken,  facing  death,  so  he  gazed  at  her,  seeing  ir 
revocability  in  her  unmoved  face.  And,  accepting  his 
doom,  sheer  childishness  overcame  him.  As  Franklin 
the  day  before  had  felt,  so  he  now  felt,  the  intolerable- 
ness  of  his  woe ;  and,  as  with  Franklin,  the  waves  closed 
over  his  head.  Helen  was  so  near  him  that  it  was  but 
a  stumbling  step  that  brought  her  within  his  arms; 
but  it  was  not  with  the  lover's  supplication  that  he 
clung  to  her;  he  clung,  hiding  his  face  on  her  breast, 
like  a  child  to  its  mother,  broken-hearted,  bewildered, 
reproachful.  And,  bursting  into  tears,  he  sobbed: 
"How  cruel  you  are!  how  cruel!  It  is  your  pride — 
you  Ve  the  heart  of  a  stone !  If  I  'd  loved  you  for  years 
and  told  you  and  made  you  know  you  loved  me  back 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  341 

— could  I  have  treated  you  like  this — and  cast  you  off 
— and  stopped  loving  you,  because  you  'd  never  seen 
before?  Oh,  Helen,  how  can  you — how  can 
you!" 

After  a  moment  Helen  spoke,  angrily,  because  she 
was  astounded,  and  because,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  was  frightened,  beyond  her  depth,  helpless  in 
the  waves  of  emotion  that  lifted  her  like  great  encom 
passing  billows.  "Gerald,  don't.  Gerald,  it  is  absurd 
of  you.  Gerald,  don't  cry."  She  had  never  seen  him 
cry. 

He  heard  her  dimly,  and  the  words  were  the  cruel 
ones  he  expected.  The  sense  of  her  cruelty  filled  him, 
and  the  dividing  sense  that  she,  who  was  so  cruel,  was 
still  his  only  refuge,  his  only  consolation. 

"What  have  I  done,  I  'd  like  to  know,  that  you  should 
treat  me  like  this?  If  you  loved  me  before — all  those 
years — why  should  you  stop  now,  because  I  love  you? 
why  should  you  stop  because  of  telling  me  ? " 

Again  Helen's  voice  came  to  him  after  a  pause,  and 
it  seemed  now  to  grope,  stupefied  and  uncertain,  for 
answers  to  his  absurdity.  "How  can  one  argue,  Ger 
ald,  like  this;  perhaps  it  was  because  I  told  you?  Per 
haps " 

He  took  her  up,  not  waiting  to  hear  her  surmises. 
"How  can  one  get  over  a  thing  like  that,  all  in  a 
moment?  How  can  it  die  like  that?  You  're  not  over 
it,  not  really.  It  is  all  pride,  and  you  are  punishing 
me  for  what  I  couldn't  help,  and  punishing  yourself 
too,  for  no  one  will  ever  love  you  as  I  do.  Oh,  Helen 
—I  can't  believe  it  's  dead.  Don't  you  know  that  no 
one  will  ever  love  you  as  I  do?  Can't  you  see  how 


342  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

happy  we  could  have  been  together?  It  's  so  silly  of 
you  not  to  see.  Yes,  you  are  silly  as  well  as  cruel." 
He  shook  her  while  he  held  her,  while  he  buried  his 
face  and  cried — cried,  literally,  like  a  baby. 

She  stood  still,  enfolded  but  not  enfolding,  and  now 
she  said  nothing  for  a  long  time,  while  her  eyes,  with 
their  strained  look  of  pain,  gazed  widely,  and  as  if  in 
astonishment,  before  her;  and  he,  knowing  only  the 
silence,  the  unresponsive  silence,  continued  to  sob  his 
protestation,  his  reproach,  with  a  helplessness  and 
vehemence  ridiculous  and  heart-rending. 

Then,  slowly,  as  if  compelled,  Helen  put  her  arms 
around  him,  and,  dully,  like  a  creature  hypnotised  to 
action  strange  to  its  whole  nature,  she  said  once  more, 
and  in  a  different  voice:  "Don't  cry,  Gerald."  But 
she,  too,  was  crying.  She  tried  to  control  her  sobs ;  but 
they  broke  from  her,  strange  and  difficult,  like  the  sobs 
of  the  hypnotised  creature  waking  from  its  trance  to 
confused  and  painful  consciousness,  and,  resting  her 
forehead  on  his  shoulder,  she  repeated  dully,  between 
her  sobs :  ' '  Don 't  cry. ' ' 

He  was  not  crying  any  longer.  Her  weeping  had 
stilled  his  in  an  instant,  and  she  went  on,  between  her 
broken  breaths:  "How  absurd — oh,  how  absurd.  Sit 
down  here — yes — keep  your  head  so,  if  you  must,  you 
foolish,  foolish  child." 

He  held  her,  hearing  her  sobs,  feeling  them  lift  her 
breast,  and,  in  all  his  great  astonishment,  like  a  smile, 
the  memory  of  the  other  day  stole  over  him,  the  still 
ness,  the  accomplishment,  the  blissful  peace,  the  lifting 
to  a  serene  eternity  of  space.  To  remember  it  now  was 
like  seeing  the  sky  from  a  nest,  and  in  the  sweet  dark- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  343 

ness  of  sudden  security  he  murmured:  "You  are  the 
foolish  child." 

"How  can  I  believe  you  love  me?"  said  Helen. 

"How  can  you  not?" 

They  sat  side  by  side,  her  arms  around  him  and  his 
head  upon  her  breast.  "It  was  only  because  I  told 
you " 

"Well — isn't  that  reason  enough?" 

"How  can  it  be  reason  enough  for  me?" 

"How  can  it  not?  You  Ve  spent  your  whole  life 
hiding  from  me;  when  I  saw  you,  why,  of  course,  I 
fell  in  love  at  once.  0  Helen — dear,  dear  Helen ! ' ' 

"When  you  saw  my  love." 

"Wasn't  that  seeing  you?" 

They  spoke  in  whispers,  and  their  hearts  were  not  in 
their  words.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her  and 
he  smiled  at  her  now  with  the  smile  of  the  beautiful 
necessity.  "How  you  've  frightened  me,"  he  said. 
"Don't  be  proud.  Even  if  it  did  need  your  clever 
ness  to  show  me  that,  too.  I  mean — you  've  given  me 
everything — always — and  why  shouldn't  you  have  given 
me  the  chance  to  see  you — and  to  know  what  you  are 
to  me?  How  you  frightened  me.  You  are  not  proud 
any  longer.  You  love  me." 

She  was  not  proud  any  longer.  She  loved  him. 
Vaguely,  in  the  bewilderment  of  her  strange,  her  bliss 
ful  humility,  among  the  great  billows  of  life  that  en 
compassed  and  lifted  her,  it  seemed  with  enormous 
heart-beats,  Helen  remembered  Franklin's  words. 
"Let  it  melt — please  let  it  melt,  dear  Helen."  But  it 
had  needed  the  inarticulate,  the  instinctive,  to  pierce 
to  the  depths  of  life.  Gerald's  tears,  his  head  so  boy- 


344  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

ishly  pressed  against  her,  his  arms  so  childishly  cling 
ing,  had  told  her  what  her  heart  might  have  been  dead 
to  for  ever  if,  with  reason  and  self-command,  he  had 
tried  to  put  it  into  words. 

She  looked  at  him,  through  her  tears,  and  she  knew 
him  dearer  to  her  in  this  resurrection  than  if  her 
heart  had  never  died  to  him;  and,  as  he  smiled  at  her, 
she,  too,  smiled  back,  tremblingly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ALTHEA  had  not  seen  Gerald  after  the  day  that 
they  came  up  from  Merriston  together.  The 
breaking  of  their  engagement  was  duly  announced,  and, 
with  his  little  note  to  her,  thanking  her  for  her  frank 
ness  and  wishing  her  every  happiness,  Gerald  and  all 
things  connected  with  him  seemed  to  pass  out  of  her 
life.  She  saw  no  more  of  the  frivolous  relations  who 
were  really  serious,  nor  of  the  serious  ones  who  were 
really  frivolous.  She  did  not  even  see  Helen.  Helen's 
engagement  to  Franklin  had  never  been  formally  an 
nounced,  and  few,  beyond  her  circle  of  nearest  friends, 
knew  of  it ;  the  fact  that  Franklin  had  now  returned  to 
his  first  love  was  not  one  that  could,  at  the  moment, 
be  made  appropriately  public.  But,  of  course,  Helen 
had  had  to  be  told,  not  only  that  Franklin  had  gone 
from  her,  but  that  he  had  come  back  to  Althea,  and 
Althea  wondered  deeply  how  this  news  had  been  im 
parted.  She  had  not  felt  strength  to  impart  it  her 
self.  "When  she  asked  Franklin,  very  tentatively,  about 
it,  he  said:  ''That  's  all  right,  dear.  I  Ve  explained. 
Helen  perfectly  understands." 

That  it  was  all  right  seemed  demonstrated  by  the 
little  note,  kind  and  sympathetic,  that  Helen  wrote  to 
her,  saying  that  she  did  understand,  perfectly,  and  was 
so  glad  for  her  and  for  Franklin,  and  that  it  was  such 
a  good  thing  when  people  found  out  mistakes  in  time. 

345 


346  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  grievance;  Helen  seemed  to 
relinquish  a  good  which,  she  recognised,  had  only  been 
hers  because  Althea  hadn't  wanted  it.  And  this  was 
natural;  how  could  one  show  one's  grievance  in  such 
a  case?  Helen,  above  all,  would  never  show  it;  and 
Althea  was  at  once  oppressed,  and  at  the  same  time 
oddly  sustained  by  the  thought  that  she  had,  all  in 
evitably,  done  her  friend  an  injury.  She  lay  awake 
at  night,  turning  over  in  her  mind  Helen's  present 
plight  and  framing  loving  plans  for  the  future.  She 
took  refuge  in  such  plans  from  a  sense  of  having  come 
to  an  end  of  things.  To  think  of  Helen,  and  of  what, 
with  their  wealth,  she  and  Franklin  could  do  for  Helen, 
seemed,  really,  her  strongest  hold  on  life.  It  was  the 
brightest  thing  that  she  had  to  look  forward  to,  and 
she  looked  forward  to  it  with  complete  self-effacement. 
She  saw  the  beautiful  Italian  villa  where  Helen  should 
be  the  fitting  centre,  the  English  house  where  Helen, 
rather  than  she,  should  entertain.  She  felt  that  she 
asked  nothing  more  for  herself.  She  wras  safe,  if  one 
liked  to  put  it  so,  and  in  that  safety  she  felt  not  only 
her  ambitions,  but  even  any  personal  desires,  ex 
tinguished.  Her  desire,  now,  was  to  unite  with  Frank 
lin  in  making  the  proper  background  for  Helen.  But 
at  the  moment  these  projects  were  unrealisable ;  taste, 
as  well  as  circumstance,  required  a  pause,  a  lull.  It 
was  a  relief — so  many  things  were  a  relief,  so  few 
things  more  than  merely  that — to  know  that  Helen  was 
in  the  country  somewhere,  and  would  not  be  back  for 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Harriet  Robinson,   very  grave  but 
very   staunch,   sustained   Althea   through   all   the   out- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLCTW!  KANE  347 

ward  difficulties  of  her  volte-face.  Miss  Robinson,  of 
course,  had  had  to  be  told  of  the  reason  for  the  volte- 
face,  the  fact  that  Althea  had  found,  after  all,  that 
she  cared  more  for  Franklin  Winslow  Kane.  It  was  in 
regard  to  the  breaking  of  her  engagement  that  Miss 
Robinson  was  staunch  and  grave;  in  regard  to  the 
new  engagement,  Althea  saw  that  though  still  staunch, 
she  was  much  disturbed.  Miss  Robinson  found  Frank 
lin  hard  to  place,  and  found  it  hard  to  understand  why 
Althea  had  turned  from  Gerald  Digby  to  him.  Frank 
lin's  millions  didn't  count  for  much  with  Miss  Robin 
son,  nor  could  she  suspect  them  of  counting  for  any 
thing,  where  marriage  was  concerned,  with  her  friend. 
She  had  not,  indeed,  a  high  opinion  of  the  millionaire 
type  of  her  compatriots.  Her  standards  were  birth 
and  fashion,  and  poor  Franklin  could  not  be  said  to 
embody  either  of  these  claims.  His  mitigating  qualities 
could  hardly  shine  for  Miss  Robinson  who,  accustomed 
to  continually  seeing  and  frequently  evading  the  drab, 
dry,  utilitarian  species  of  her  country-people,  could 
not  be  expected  to  find  in  him  the  flavour  of  oddity  and 
significance  that  his  English  acquaintance  prized. 
Franklin  didn't  make  any  effort  to  place  himself  more 
favourably.  He  was  very  gentle  and  very  attentive, 
and  he  followed  all  Althea 's  directions  as  to  clothes 
and  behaviour  with  careful  literalness;  but  even  bar- 
bered  and  tailored  by  the  best  that  London  had  to  offer, 
he  seemed  to  sink  inevitably  into  the  discreetly  effaced 
position  that  the  American  husband  so  often  assumes 
behind  his  more  brilliant  mate,  and  Althea  might  have 
been  more  aware  of  this  had  she  not  been  so  sunken 
in  an  encompassing  consciousness  of  her  own  oblitera- 


348  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

tion.  She  felt  herself  nearer  Franklin  there,  and  the 
sense  of  relief  and  safety  came  most  to  her  when  she 
could  feel  herself  near  Franklin.  It  didn't  disturb 
her,  standing  by  him  in  the  background,  that  Miss 
Robinson  should  not  appreciate  him.  After  all, 
deeper  than  anything,  was  the  knowledge  that  Helen 
had  appreciated  him.  Recede  as  far  as  he  would  from 
the  gross  foreground  places,  Helen's  choice  of  him, 
Helen's  love — for  after  a  fashion,  Helen  must  have 
loved  him — gave  him  a  final  and  unquestionable  value. 
It  was  in  this  assurance  of  Helen's  choice  that  she 
found  a  refuge  when  questionings  and  wonders  came 
to  drag  her  down  to  suffering  again.  There  were  many 
things  that  menaced  the  lull  of  safety,  things  she  could 
not  bear  yet  to  look  at.  The  sense  of  her  own 
abandonment  to  weak  and  disingenuous  impulses  was 
one;  another  shadowed  her  unstable  peace  more  darkly. 
Had  Helen  really  minded  losing  Franklin — apart  from 
his  money?  What  had  his  value  really  been  to  her? 
What  was  she  feeling  and  doing  now?  What  was 
Gerald  doing  and  feeling,  and  what  did  they  both  think 
or  suspect  of  her?  The  answer  to  some  of  these  ques 
tionings  came  to  her  from  an  unsuspected  quarter. 
It  was  on  a  morning  of  chill  mists  and  pale  sunlight 
that  Althea,  free  of  Miss  Robinson,  walked  down 
Grosvenor  Street  towards  the  park.  She  liked  to  go 
into  the  park  on  such  mornings,  when  Miss  Robinson 
left  her  free,  and  sit  on  a  bench  and  abandon  herself 
to  remote,  impersonal  dreams.  It  was  just  as  she  en 
tered  Berkeley  Square  that  she  met  Mrs.  Mallison,  that 
aunt  of  Gerald's  who  had  struck  her,  some  weeks  ago, 
as  so  disconcerting,  with  her  skilfully  preserved  pretti- 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  349 

ness  and  her  ethical  and  metaphysical  aspirations. 
This  lady,  furred  to  her  ears,  was  taking  out  two  small 
black  pomeranians  for  an  airing.  She  wore  long  pearl 
ear-rings,  and  her  narrow,  melancholy  face  was  deli 
cately  rouged  and  powdered.  Althea's  colour  rose  pain 
fully;  she  had  seen  none  of  Gerald's  relatives  since  the 
severance.  Mrs.  Mallison,  however,  showed  no  embar 
rassment.  She  stopped  at  once  and  took  Althea's  hand 
and  gazed  tenderly  upon  her.  Her  manner  had  always 
afflicted  Althea,  with  its  intimations  of  some  deep,  mys 
tical  understanding. 

"My  dear,  I  'm  so  glad — to  meet  you,  you  know. 
How  nice,  how  right  you  've  been."  Mrs.  Mallison 
murmured  her  words  rather  than  spoke  them  and  could 
pronounce  none  of  her  r's.  "I  'm  so  glad  to  be  able  to 
tell  you  so.  You  're  walking  ?  Come  with  me,  then ; 
I  'm  just  taking  the  dogs  round  the  square.  Do  you  love 
dogs  too?  I  am  sure  you  must.  You  have  the  eyes  of 
the  dog-lover.  I  don't  know  how  I  could  live  without 
mine;  they  understand  when  no  one  else  does.  I  didn't 
write,  because  I  think  letters  are  such  soulless  things, 
don't  you?  They  are  the  tombs  of  the  spirit — little 
tombs  for  killed  things — too  often.  I  've  thought  of  you, 
and  felt  for  you — so  much;  but  I  couldn't  write.  And 
now  I  must  tell  you  that  I  agree  with  you  with  all  my 
heart.  Love's  the  only  thing  in  life,  isn't  it?"  Mrs. 
Mallison  smiled,  pressing  Althea's  arm  affectionately. 
Althea  remembered  to  have  heard  that  Mrs.  Mallison 
had  made  a  most  determined  manage  de  convenance 
and  had  sought  love  in  other  directions;  but,  summon 
ing  what  good  grace  she  could,  she  answered  that  she, 
too,  considered  love  the  only  thing. 


350  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"You  didn't  love  him  enough,  and  you  found  it  out 
in  time,  and  you  told  him.  How  brave;  how  right. 
And  then — am  I  too  indiscreet?  but  I  know  you  feel 
we  are  friends — you  found  you  loved  some  one  else ;  the 
reality  came  and  showed  you  the  unreality.  That  en 
chanting  Mr.  Kane — oh,  I  felt  it  the  moment  I  looked 
at  him — there  was  an  affinity  between  us,  our  souls  un 
derstood  each  other.  And  so  deliciously  rich  you  '11 
be,  not  that  money  makes  any  difference,  does  it?  but 
it  is  nice  to  be  able  to  do  things  for  the  people  one 
loves. ' ' 

Althea  struggled  in  a  maze  of  discomfort.  Behind 
Mrs.  Mallison's  caressing  intonations  was  something  that 
perplexed  her.  What  did  Mrs.  Mallison  know,  and 
what  did  she  guess?  She  was  aware,  evidently,  of  her 
own  engagement  to  Franklin  and,  no  doubt  of  Frank 
lin's  engagement  to  Helen  and  its  breaking  off.  What 
did  she  know  about  the  cause  of  that  breaking  off  ?  Her 
troubled  cogitations  got  no  further  for  Mrs.  Mallison 
went  on: 

' '  And  how  happily  it  has  all  turned  out — all  round — 
hasn't  it?  How  horrid  for  you  and  Mr.  Kane,  if  it 
hadn't;  not  that  you  'd  have  had  anything  to  reproach 
yourselves  with — really — I  know — because  love  is  the 
only  thing;  but  if  Helen  and  Gerald  had  just  been  left 
plantes  Id,  it  would  have  been  harder,  wouldn't  it? 
I  've  been  staying  with  them  at  the  same  house  in  the 
country  and  it  's  quite  obvious  what  's  happened.  You 
knew  from  the  first,  no  doubt;  but  of  course  they  are 
saying  nothing,  just  as  you  and  Mr.  Kane  are  saying 
nothing.  They  didn't  tell  me,  but  I  guessed  at  once. 
And  the  first  thing  I  thought  was:  Oh — how  happy — 


FRANKLIN  .WINSLOW.  KANE  351 

how  perfect  this  makes  it  for  Miss  Jakes  and  Mr.  Kane. 
They  've  all  found  out  in  time." 

Althea  grew  cold.  She  commanded  her  voice. 
"Helen?  Gerald?"  she  said.  "Haven't  you  mis 
taken  ?  They  've  always  been  the  nearest  friends. ' ' 

"Oh,  no — no,"  smiled  Mrs.  Mallison,  with  even 
greater  brightness  and  gentleness,  "I  never  mistake 
these  things ;  an  affair  of  the  heart  is  the  one  thing  that 
I  always  see.  Helen,  perhaps,  could  hide  it  from  me; 
she  is  a  woman  and  can  hide  things — Helen  is  cold  too 
— I  am  never  very  sure  of  Helen 's  heart — of  course  I  love 
her  dearly,  every  one  must  who  knows  her;  but  she  is 
cold,  unawakened,  the  type  that  holds  out  the  cheek,  not 
the  type  that  kisses.  I  confess  that  I  love  most  the  reck 
less,  loving  type ;  and  I  believe  that  you  and  I  are  unlike 
Helen  there — we  kiss,  we  don 't  hold  out  the  cheek.  But, 
no,  I  never  would  have  guessed  from  Helen.  It  was 
Gerald  who  gave  them  both  away.  Poor,  dear  Gerald, 
never  have  I  beheld  such  a  transfigured  being — he  is 
radiantly  in  love,  quite  radiantly ;  it  's  too  pretty  to  see 
him." 

The  vision  of  Gerald,  radiantly  in  love,  flashed  hor 
ridly  for  Althea.  It  was  dim,  yet  bright,  scintillating 
darkly;  she  could  only  imagine  it  in  similes;  she  had 
never  seen  anything  that  could  visualise  it  for  her.  The 
insufferable  dogs,  like  tethered  bubbles,  bounded  before 
them,  constantly  impeding  their  progress.  Althea  was 
thankful  for  the  excuse  afforded  her  by  the  tangling  of 
her  feet  in  the  string  to  pause  and  stoop ;  she  felt  that 
her  rigid  face  must  betray  her.  She  stooped  for  a  long 
moment  and  hoped  that  her  flush  would  cover  her  rigid 
ity.  It  was  when  she  raised  herself  that  she  saw  sud- 


352  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

denly  in  Mrs.  Mallison's  face  something  that  gave  her 
more  than  a  suspicion.  She  didn't  suspect  her  of 
cruelty  or  vulgar  vengeance — Gerald's  aunt  was  quite 
without  rancour  on  the  score  of  her  jilting  of  him ;  but 
she  did  suspect,  and  more  than  suspect  her — it  was  like 
the  unendurable  probing  of  a  wound  to  feel  it — of  idle 
yet  implacable  curiosity,  and  of  a  curiosity  edged,  per 
haps,  with  idle  malice.  She  summoned  all  her  strength. 
She  smiled  and  shook  her  head  a  little.  "Faithless 
Gerald !  So  soon, ' '  she  said.  ' '  He  is  consoled  quickly. 
No,  I  never  guessed  anything  at  all." 

Mrs.  Mallison  had  again  passed  her  arm  through  hers 
and  again  pressed  it.  "It  is  soon,  isn't  it?  A  sort  of 
chassee  croisee.  But  how  strange  and  fortunate  that 
it  should  be  soon — I  know  you  feel  that  too. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  feel  it;  it  is  an  immense  relief. 
But  they  ought  to  have  told  me, ' '  Althea  smiled. 

"I  wonder  at  that  too,"  said  Mrs.  Mallison.  "It  is 
rather  bad  of  them,  I  think,  when  they  must  know  what 
it  would  mean  to  you  of  joy.  When  did  it  happen,  do 
you  suppose  ? ' ' 

Althea  wondered.     Wonders  were  devouring  her. 

"It  happened  with  you  quite  suddenly,  didn't  it?" 
said  Mrs.  Mallison,  who  breathed  the  soft  fragrance  of 
her  solicitude  into  Althea 's  face  as  she  leaned  her  head 
near  and  pressed  her  arm  closely. 

"Quite  suddenly,"  Althea  replied,  "that  is,  with  me 
it  was  sudden.  Franklin,  of  course,  has  loved  me  for  a 
great  many  years." 

"So  he  was  faithless  too,  for  his  little  time?" 

Althea 's  brain  whirled.     "Faithless?     Franklin?" 


FEANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  353 

' '  I  mean,  while  he  made  his  mistake — while  he  thought 
he  was  in  love  with  Helen." 

"It  wasn't  a  question  of  that.  It  was  to  be  a  match 
of  reason,  and  friendship — everybody  knew,"  Althea 
stammered. 

"Was  it?"  said  Mrs.  Mallison  with  deep  interest.  "I 
see,  like  yours  and  Gerald's." 

"Oh "    Althea   was   not   able   in   her   headlong 

course  to  do  more  than  glance  at  the  implications  that 
whizzed  past.  "Gerald  and  I  made  the  mistake  I  think; 
we  believed  ourselves  in  love." 

"Did  you?"  Mrs.  Mallison  repeated  her  tone  of 
affectionate  and  brooding  interest.  "What  a  strange 
thing  the  human  heart  is,  isn't  it?" 

"Very,  very  strange." 

"How  dear  and  frank  of  you  to  see  it  all  as  you  do. 
And  there  are  no  more  mistakes  now,"  said  Mrs.  Malli 
son.  "No  one  is  reasonable  and  every  one  is  radiant." 

"Every  one  is  radiant  and  reasonable  too,  I  hope," 
said  Althea.  Her  head  still  whirled  as  she  heard  herself 
analysing  for  Mrs.  Mallison 's  correction  these  sanctities 
of  her  life.  Odious,  intolerable,  insolent  woman!  She 
could  have  burst  into  tears  as  she  walked  beside  her,  held 
by  her,  while  her  hateful  dogs,  shrilly  barking,  bounded 
buoyantly  around  them. 

"It  's  dear  of  you  too,  to  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Mallison.  "  Have  you  seen  Helen  yet  ?  She  is  just 
back." 

"No,  I  've  not  seen  her." 

"You  will  meet?     I  am  sure  you  will  still  be  friends 
— two  such  real  people  as  you  are. ' ' 
23 


354  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

' '  Of  course  we  shall  meet.  Helen  is  one  of  my  dearest 
friends. ' ' 

"I  see.  It  is  so  beautiful  when  people  can  rise  above 
things.  You  make  me  very  happy.  Don't  tell  Helen 
what  I  've  told  you,"  Mrs.  Mallison  with  gentle  gaiety 
warned  her.  "I  knew — in  case  you  hadn't  heard — that 
it  would  relieve  you  so  intensely  to  hear  that  she  and 
Gerald  were  happy,  in  spite  of  what  you  had  to  do  to 
them.  But  it  would  make  Helen  cross  with  me  if  she 
knew  I  'd  told  you  when  she  hadn  't.  I  'm  rather  afraid 
of  Helen,  aren't  you?  I  'm  sure  she  '11  give  Gerald 
dreadful  scoldings  sometimes.  Poor,  dear  Gerald!" 
Mrs.  Mallison  laughed  reminiscently.  "  Never  have  I 
beheld  such  a  transfigured  being.  I  didn  't  think  he  had 
it  in  him  to  be  in  love  to  such  an  extent.  Oh,  it  was  all 
in  his  face — his  eyes — when  he  looked  at  her. ' ' 

Yes,  malicious,  malicious  to  the  point  of  vulgarity; 
that  was  Althea's  thought  as,  like  an  arrow  released 
from  long  tension,  she  sped  away,  the  turn  of  the  square 
once  made,  and  Mrs.  Mallison  and  her  dogs  once  more 
received  into  the  small  house  in  an  adjacent  street. 
Tears  were  in  Althea's  eyes,  hot  tears,  of  fury,  of  hu 
miliation,  and — oh,  it  flooded  over  her — of  bitterest  sor 
row  and  yearning.  Gerald,  radiant  Gerald — lost  to  her 
for  ever;  not  even  lost;  never  possessed.  And  into  the 
sorrow  and  humiliation,  poisonous  suspicions  crept. 
When  did  it  happen  ?  Where  was  she  ?  What  had  been 
done  to  her  ?  She  must  see ;  she  must  know.  She  hailed 
a  hansom  and  was  driven  to  old  Miss  Buchanan's  house 
in  Belgravia. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

HELEN  was  sitting  at  her  writing-table  before  the 
window,  and  the  morning  light  fell  on  her  grace 
fully  disordered  hair  and  gracefully  shabby  shoulders. 
The  aspect  of  her  back  struck  on  Althea's  bitter,  breath 
less  mood.  There  was  no  effort  made  for  anything  with 
Helen.  She  was  the  sort  of  person  who  would  get  things 
without  seeking  for  them  and  be  things  without  caring 
to  be  them.  She  had  taken  what  she  wanted,  when  she 
wanted  it ;  first  Franklin,  and  then — and  perhaps  it  had 
been  before  Franklin  had  failed  her,  perhaps  it  had 
been  before  she,  Althea,  had  failed  Gerald — she  had 
taken  Gerald.  Althea's  mind,  reeling,  yet  strangely 
lucid  after  the  shock  of  the  last  great  injury,  was  also 
aware,  in  the  moment  of  her  entrance,  of  many  other 
injuries,  old  ones,  small  ones,  yet,  in  their  summing  up 
— and  everything  seemed  to  be  summed  up  now  in  the 
cruel  revelation — as  intolerable  as  the  new  and  great 
one.  More  strongly  than  ever  before  she  was  aware  that 
Helen  was  hard,  that  there  was  nothing  in  her  soft  or 
tentative  or  afraid;  and  the  realisation,  though  it  was 
not  new,  came  with  an  added  bitterness  this  morning. 
It  did  not  weaken  her,  however;  on  the  contrary,  it 
nerved  her  to  self-protection.  If  Helen  was  hard,  she 
would  not,  to-day,  show  herself  soft.  It  was  she  who 
must  assume  the  air  of  success,  and  of  rueful  yet  helpless 
possessorship.  These  impressions  and  resolutions  occu- 

355 


356  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

pied  but  an  instant.  Helen  rose  and  came  to  her,  and 
what  Althea  saw  in  her  face  armed  her  resolutions  with 
hostility.  Helen's  face  confirmed  what  Mrs.  Mallison 
had  said.  It  was  not  resentful,  not  ironically  calm.  A 
solicitous  interest,  even  a  sort  of  benignity,  was  in  her 
bright  gaze.  Helen  was  hard;  she  did  not  really  care 
at  all;  but  she  was  kind,  kinder  than  ever  before;  and 
Althea  found  this  kindness  intolerable. 

''Dear  Helen,"  she  said,  "I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  I 
had  to  come  at  once  when  I  heard  that  you  were  back. 
You  don't  mind  seeing  me." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Helen,  who  had  taken  her  hand. 
"Why  should  I?" 

"I  was  afraid  that  perhaps  you  might  not  want  to — 
for  a  long  time. ' ' 

"We  aren't  so  foolish  as  that,"  said  Helen  smiling. 

"No,  that  is  what  I  hoped  you  would  feel  too.  We 
have  been  in  the  hands  of  fate,  haven't  we,  Helen? 
I  've  seemed  weak  and  disloyal,  I  know — to  you  and 
to  Gerald;  but  I  think  it  was  only  seeming.  When  I 
found  out  my  mistake  I  couldn't  go  on.  And  then  the 
rest  all  followed — inevitably. ' ' 

Helen  had  continued  to  hold  her  hand  while  she  spoke, 
and  she  continued  to  gaze  at  her  for  another  moment 
before,  pressing  it,  she  let  it  fall  and  said :  "Of  course 
you  couldn't  go  on." 

Helen  was  as  resolved — Althea  saw  that  clearly — to 
act  her  part  of  unresentful  kindness  as  she  to  act  hers  of 
innocent  remorse.  And  the  swordthrust  in  the  sight  was 
to  suspect  that  had  Helen  been  in  reality  the  dispossessed 
and  not  the  secretly  triumphant,  she  might  have  been  as 
kind  and  as  unresentful. 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  357 

"It  's  all  been  a  dreadful  mistake, ' '  Althea  said,  going 
to  a  chair  and  loosening  her  furs.  "From  the  very  be 
ginning  I  felt  doubt.  From  the  very  beginning  I  felt 
that  Gerald  and  I  did  not  really  make  each  other  happy. 
And  I  believe  that  you  wondered  about  it  too." 

Helen  had  resumed  her  seat  at  the  writing-table, 
sitting  turned  from  it,  her  hand  hanging  over  the  back 
of  the  chair,  her  long  legs  crossed,  and  she  faced  her 
friend  with  that  bright  yet  softened  gaze,  interested, 
alert,  but  too  benign,  too  contented,  to  search  or  question 
closely.  She  was  evidently  quite  willing  that  Althea 
should  think  what  she  chose,  and,  this  was  becoming 
evident,  she  intended  to  help  her  to  think  it.  So  after 
a  little  pause  she  answered,  "I  did  wonder,  rather;  it 
didn't  seem  to  me  that  you  and  Gerald  were  really 
suited." 

"And  you  felt,  didn't  you,"  Althea  urged,  "that  it 
was  only  because  I  had  been  so  blind,  and  had  not  seen 
where  my  heart  really  was,  you  know,  that  your  engage 
ment  was  possible?  I  was  so  afraid  you  'd  think  we  'd 
been  faithless  to  you — Franklin  and  I;  but,  when  I 
stopped  being  blind " 

"Of  course,"  Helen  helped  her  on,  nodding  and  smil 
ing  gravely,  "of  course  you  took  him  back.  I  don't 
think  you  were  either  of  you  faithless,  and  you  mustn't 
have  me  a  bit  on  your  minds ;  it  was  startling,  of  course ; 
but  I  'm  not  heart-broken, ' '  Helen  assured  her. 

Oh,  there  was  no  malice  here;  it  was  something  far 
worse  to  bear,  this  wish  to  lift  every  shadow  and  smooth 
every  path.  Althea 's  eyes  fixed  themselves  hard  on  her 
friend.  Her  head  swam  a  little  and  some  of  her  sus 
taining  lucidity  left  her. 


358  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

"I  was  so  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  you,  perhaps,  cared 
for  Franklin — had  come  to  care  so  much,  I  mean — that 
it  might  have  been  hard  for  you  to  forgive.  I  can't  tell 
you  the  relief  it  is " 

"To  see  that  I  didn't  care  so  much  as  that?"  Helen 
smiled  brightly,  though  with  a  brightness,  now,  slightly 
wary,  as  though  with  all  her  efforts  to  slide  and  not  to 
press,  she  felt  the  ice  cracking  a  little  under  her  feet, 
and  as  though  some  care  might  be  necessary  if  she  were 
to  skate  safely  away.  "Don't  have  that  in  the  least  on 
your  mind,  it  was  what  you  always  disapproved  of,  you 
know,  an  arrangement  of  convenience.  Franklin  and  I 
both  understood  perfectly.  You  know  how  mercenary  I 
am — though  I  told  you,  I  remember,  that  I  couldn't 
think  of  marrying  anybody  I  didn't  like.  I  liked 
Franklin,  more  than  I  can  say ;  but  it  was  never  a  ques 
tion  of  love." 

In  Althea's  ears,  also,  the  ice  seemed  now  to  crack 
ominously.  "You  mean,"  she  said,  "that  you  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  marrying  Franklin  if  it  hadn  't  been  for 
his  money?" 

There  was  nothing  for  Helen  but  to  skate  straight 
ahead.  "No,  I  don't  suppose  I  should." 

"But  you  had  become  the  greatest  friends." 

She  was  aware  that  she  must  seem  to  be  trying, 
strangely,  incredibly,  to  prove  to  Helen  that  she  had 
been  in  love  with  Franklin;  to  prove  to  her  that  she 
had  no  right  not  to  resent  anything;  no  right  to  find 
forgiveness  so  easy.  But  there  was  no  time  now  to 
stop. 

"Of  course  we  became  the  greatest  friends,"  Helen 
said,  and  it  was  as  if  with  relief  for  the  outlet.  She  was 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  359 

bewildered,  and  did  not  know  where  they  were  going. 
"I  don't  need  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  Franklin. 
He  is  the  dearest  and  best  of  men,  and  you  are  the  luck 
iest  of  women  to  have  won  him." 

"Ah,"  uncontrollably  Althea  rose  to  her  feet  with  al 
most  the  cry,  ' '  I  see ;  you  think  me  lucky  to  have  won  a 
man  who,  in  himself,  without  money,  wasn  't  good  enough 
for  you.  Thank  you." 

For  a  long  moment — and  in  it  they  both  recognised 
that  the  crash  had  come,  and  that  they  were  struggling 
in  dark,  cold  water — Helen  was  silent.  She  kept  her 
eyes  on  Althea  and  she  did  not  move.  Then,  while  she 
still  looked  steadily  upon  her,  a  slow  colour  rose  in  her 
cheeks.  It  was  helplessly,  burningly,  that  she  blushed, 
and  Althea  saw  that  she  blushed  as  much  for  anger  as 
for  shame,  and  that  the  shame  was  for  her. 

She  did  not  need  Helen's  blush  to  show  her  what  she 
had  done,  what  desecration  she  had  wrought.  Her  own 
blood  beat  upwards  in  hot  surges  and  tears  rushed  into 
her  eyes.  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
dropped  again  into  her  chair,  sobbing. 

Helen  did  not  help  her  out.  She  got  up  and  went  to 
the  mantelpiece  and  looked  down  at  the  fire  for  some 
moments.  And  at  last  she  spoke,  "I  didn't  mean  that 
either.  I  think  that  Franklin  is  too  good  for  either  of 
us." 

"Good!"  wept  Althea.  "He  is  an  angel.  Do  you 
suppose  I  don't  see  that?  But  why  should  I  pretend 
when  you  don't.  I'm  not  in  love  ^  with  Franklin. 
I  'm  unworthy  of  him — more  unworthy  of  him  than  you 
were — but  I  'm  not  in  love  with  him,  even  though  he  is 
an  angel.  So  don't  tell  me  that  I  am  lucky.  I  am  a 


360  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

most  miserable  woman."    And  she  wept  on,  indifferent 
now  to  any  revelations. 

Presently  she  heard  Helen's  voice.  It  was  harder 
than  she  had  ever  known  it.  "May  I  say  something? 
It  's  for  his  sake — more  than  for  yours.  What  I  advise 
you  to  do  is  not  to  bother  so  much  about  love.  You 
couldn't  stick  to  Gerald  because  you  weren't  loved 
enough ;  and  you  're  doubting  your  feeling  for  Franklin, 
now,  because  you  can't  love  him  enough.  Give  it  all  up. 
Follow  my  second-rate  example.  Be  glad  that  you  're 
marrying  an  angel  and  that  he  has  all  that  money.  And 
do  remember  that  though  you  're  not  getting  what  you 
want,  you  are  getting  a  good  deal  and  he  is  getting 
nothing,  so  try  to  play  the  game  and  to  see  if  you  can't 
make  it  up  to  him;  see  if  you  can't  make  him  happy." 

Althea's  sobbing  had  now  ceased,  though  she  kept  he 
face  still  covered.  Bitter  sadness,  too  deep  now  for  re 
sentment,  was  in  her  silence,  a  silence  in  which  she  ac 
cepted  what  Helen's  words  had  of  truth.  The  sadness 
was  to  see  at  last  to  the  full,  that  she  had  no  place  in 
Helen's  life.  There  was  no  love,  there  was  hardly  lik 
ing,  behind  Helen's  words.  And  so  it  had  been  from  the 
very  first,  ever  since  she  had  loved  and  Helen  accepted ; 
ever  since  she  had  gone  forth  carrying  gifts,  and  Helen 
had  stood  still  and  been  vaguely  aware  that  homage  was 
being  offered.  It  had,  from  the  very  beginning,  been 
this;  Helen,  hard,  self-centred,  insensible,  so  that  any 
thing  appealing  or  uncertain  was  bound  to  be  shattered 
against  her.  And  was  not  this  indifference  to  offered 
love  a  wrong  done  to  it,  something  that  all  life  cried  out 
against?  Had  not  weakness  and  fear  and  the  clinging 
appeal  of  immaturity  their  rights,  so  that  the  strong 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  361 

heart  that  was  closed  to  them,  that  did  not  go  out  to 
them  in  tenderness  and  succour,  was  the  dull,  the  lesser 
heart?  Dimly  she  knew,  not  exculpating  herself,  not 
judging  her  beautiful  Helen,  that  though  she  had,  in  her 
efforts  towards  happiness,  pitifully  failed,  there  was 
failure  too  in  being  blind,  in  being  unconscious  of  any 
effort  to  be  made.  The  more  trivial,  the  meaner  aspect 
of  her  grief  was  merged  in  a  fundamental  sincerity. 

"What  you  say  is  true,"  she  said,  "for  I  know  that 
I  am  a  poor  creature.  I  know  that  I  give  Franklin  noth 
ing,  and  take  everything  from  him.  But  it  is  easy  for 
you  to  talk  of  what  is  wise  and  strong,  Helen,  and  to 
tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do  and  feel.  You  have  every 
thing.  You  have  the  man  who  loves  you  and  the  man 
you  love.  It  is  easy  for  you  to  be  clear  and  hard  and 
see  other  people's  faults.  I  know — I  know  about  you 
and  Gerald." 

Helen  turned  to  her.  Althea  had  dropped  her  hands. 
She  did  not  look  at  her  friend,  but,  with  tear-disfigured 
eyes,  out  of  the  window;  and  there  was  a  desolate 
dignity  in  her  aspect.  For  the  first  time  in  their  un 
equal  intercourse  they  were  on  an  equal  footing.  Helen 
was  aware  of  Althea,  and,  in  a  vague  flash,  for  self-con 
templation  was  difficult  to  her,  she  was  aware  of  some 
of  the  things  that  Althea  saw;  the  lack  of  tenderness; 
the  lack  of  imagination;  the  indifference  to  all  that  did 
not  come  within  the  circle  of  her  own  tastes  and  affec 
tions.  It  was  just  as  Franklin  had  said,  and  Gerald, 
and  now  Althea;  her  heart  was  hard.  And  she  was 
sorry,  though  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  to  do;  for 
though  she  was  sorry  for  Althea  her  heart  did  not  soften 
for  her  as  it  had  softened  for  Franklin,  and  for  the 


362  FBANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

thought  of  Franklin — too  good  for  them  all,  sacrificed  to 
them  all.  It  was  the  thought  of  the  cruelty  of  nature, 
making  of  Franklin,  with  all  his  wealth  of  love,  a  crea 
ture  never  to  be  desired,  that  gave  to  her  vision  of  life, 
and  of  all  this  strange  predicament  in  which  life  had  in 
volved  them,  an  ironic  colour  incompatible  with  the 
warmth  of  trust  and  tenderness  which  Franklin  had  felt 
lacking  in  her.  She  was  ironic,  she  was  hard,  and  she 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  But  it  was  in  a  gentle  voice 
that,  looking  at  her  friend's  melancholy  head,  she  asked: 
"Who  told  you  that?" 

"Mrs.  Mallison,"  said  Althea.  "I  Ve  been  a  hypo 
crite  to  you  all  the  morning." 

"And  I  have  been  an  odious  prig  to  you.  That  ass  of 
a  Kitty  Mallison.  I  had  not  intended  any  one  to  know 
for  months."  Even  in  her  discomfiture  Helen  retained 
her  tact.  She  did  not  say  "we." 

' '  For  my  sake,  I  suppose  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no!  why  for  yours?"  Helen  was  determined 
that  Althea  should  be  hurt  no  further.  If  pity  for 
Franklin  had  edged  her  voice,  pity  for  Althea  must  keep 
from  her  the  blighting  knowledge  of  Franklin 's  sacrifice. 

"It  was  we  who  were  left,  wasn't  it — Gerald  and  I? 
I  don't  want  us  to  appear  before  people's  eyes  at  once 
as  consolation  prizes  to  each  other." 

Althea  now  turned  a  sombre  gaze  upon  her.  "He 
couldn  't  be  that  to  you,  since  you  've  never  loved  Frank 
lin;  and  I  know  that  you  are  not  that  to  him;  Gerald 
didn't  need  to  be  consoled  for  losing  me.  He  did  need 
to  be  consoled  when  he  heard  that  you  were  marrying 
Franklin.  I  remember  the  day  that  your  letter  came — 
the  letter  that  said  you  were  engaged.  That  really 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  363 

ended  things  for  us."  Her  lip  trembled.  "It  is  easy 
for  you  to  say  that  I  didn't  stick  to  Gerald  because  he 
didn  't  love  me  enough.  How  could  I  have  stuck  to  some 
one  who,  I  see  it  well  enough  now,  was  beginning  to  love 
some  one  else?" 

Helen  contemplated  her  and  the  truths  she  put  before 
her.  ' '  Try  to  forgive  me, ' '  she  said. 

"There  's  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  Althea,  rising. 
"You  told  me  the  truth,  and  what  I  had  said  was  so 
despicable  that  I  deserved  to  have  it  told  to  me.  All  the 
mistakes  are  mine.  I  've  wanted  things  that  I  've  no 
right  to ;  I  suppose  it  's  that.  You  and  I  weren  't  made 
for  each  other,  just  as  Gerald  and  I  weren't,  and  it  's 
all  only  my  mistake  and  my  misfortune — for  wanting 
and  loving  people  who  couldn't  want  or  love  me.  I  see 
it  all  at  last,  and  it  's  all  over.  Good-bye,  Helen."  She 
put  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  but  don't — don't "  Helen  clasped  her 

hand,  strangely  shaken  by  impulses  of  pity  and  self-re 
proach  that  yet  left  her  helpless  before  her  friend's  sin 
cerity.  "Don't  say  you  are  going  to  give  me  up,"  she 
finished,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  must  give  up  all  sorts  of  things,"  said 
Althea,  smiling  desolately.  "If  we  hadn't  got  so  near, 
we  might  have  gone  on.  I  'm  afraid  when  people  aren  't 
made  for  each  other  they  can't  get  so  near  without  its 
breaking  them.  Good-bye.  I  shall  try  to  be  worthy  of 
Franklin.  I  shall  try  to  make  him  happy." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

SHE  drove  back  to  her  hotel.  She  felt  very  tired. 
The  world  she  gazed  at  seemed  vast  and  alien,  a 
world  in  which  she  had  no  place.  The  truth  had  come 
to  her  and  she  looked  at  it  curiously,  almost  indifferently. 
London  flowed  past  her,  long  tides  of  purpose  to  right 
and  left.  The  trees  in  Green  Park  were  softly  blurred 
on  the  chill,  white  sky.  She  looked  at  the  trees  and  sky 
and  at  the  far  lift  of  Piccadilly,  blackened  with  traffic, 
and  at  the  faces  that  went  by,  as  if  it  were  all  a  vast 
cinematograph  and  she  the  idlest  of  spectators.  And  it 
was  here  that  love  had  first  come  to  her,  and  here  that 
despair  had  come.  Now  both  were  over  and  she  ac 
cepted  her  defeat. 

She  thought,  when  the  hotel  was  reached,  and  as  she 
went  upstairs,  that  she  would  go  to  bed  and  try  to  sleep. 
But  when  she  entered  her  little  sitting-room  she  found 
Franklin  there  waiting  for  her.  He  had  been  reading 
the  newspapers  before  the  fire  and  had  risen  quickly  on 
hearing  her  step.  It  was  as  if  she  had  forgotten  Frank 
lin  all  this  time. 

She  stood  by  the  door  that  she  had  closed,  and  gazed 
at  him.  It  was  without  will,  or  hope,  or  feeling  that  she 
gazed,  as  if  he  were  a  part  only  of  that  alien  world  she 
had  looked  at,  and  this  outward  seeing  was  relentless. 
A  meagre,  commonplace,  almost  comic  little  man.  She 
saw  behind  him  his  trite  and  colourless  antecedents ;  she 

364 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  365 

saw  before  him — and  her — the  future,  trite  and  colour 
less  too,  but  for  the  extraneous  glitter  of  the  millions 
that  surrounded  him  as  incongruously  as  a  halo  would 
have  done.  He  was  an  angel,  of  course;  he  was  good; 
but  he  was  only  that ;  there  were  no  varieties,  no  graces, 
no  mysteries.  His  very  interests  were  as  meagre  as  his 
personality;  he  had  hardly  a  taste,  except  the  taste  for 
doing  his  best.  Books,  music,  pictures — all  the  great 
world  of  beauty  and  intellect  that  the  world  of  goodness 
and  workaday  virtues  existed,  perhaps,  only  to  make  pos 
sible — its  finer,  more  ethereal  superstructure — only 
counted  for  Franklin  as  recreations,  relaxations,  things 
half  humourously  accepted  as  one  accepts  a  glass  of 
lemonade  on  a  hot  day.  Not  only  was  he  without  charm, 
but  he  was  unaware  of  charm ;  he  didn  't  see  it  or  feel  it 
or  need  it.  And  she,  who  had  seen  and  felt,  she  who  had 
known  Gerald  and  Helen,  must  be  satisfied  with  this.  It 
wras  this  that  she  must  strive  to  be  worthy  of.  She  was 
unworthy,  and  she  knew  it ;  but  that  acceptation  was  only 
part  of  the  horror  of  defeat.  And  the  soulless  gaze  with 
which  she  looked  at  him  oddly  chiselled  her  pallid  face. 
She  was  like  a  dumb,  classic  mask,  too  impersonal  for 
tragedy.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  their  speechlessness 
and  her  eyes  vacant  of  thought. 

Then,  after  that  soulless  seeing,  she  realised  that  she 
had  frightened  Franklin.  He  came  to  her.  "Dear — 
what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

He  came  so  near  that  she  looked  into  his  eyes.  She 
looked  deeply,  for  a  long  time,  in  silence.  And  while 
she  looked,  while  Franklin's  hands  gently  found  and 
held  hers,  life  came  to  her  with  dreadful  pain  again. 
She  felt,  rather  than  knew — and  with  a  long  shudder — 


366  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

that  the  world  was  vast;  she  felt  and  feared  it  as  vast 
and  alien.  She  felt  that  she  was  alone,  and  the  loneli 
ness  was  a  terror,  beating  upon  her.  And  she  felt — no 
longer  seeing  anything  but  the  deeps  of  Franklin's  eyes 
— that  he  was  her  only  refuge ;  and  closing  her  own  eyes 
she  stumbled  towards  him  and  he  received  her  in  his 
arms. 

They  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  Franklin  clasped  her  while 
she  wept,  and  she  seemed  to  re-enter  childhood  where  all 
that  she  wanted  was  to  cry  her  heart  out  and  have  gentle 
arms  around  her  while  she  confessed  every  wrong-doing 
that  had  made  a  barrier  between  herself  and  her 
mother's  heart.  "0  Franklin,"  she  sobbed,  "I  'm  so 
unhappy ! ' ' 

He  said  nothing,  soothing  her  as  a  mother  might  have 
done. 

' '  Franklin,  I  loved  him ! ' '  she  sobbed.  ' '  It  was  real : 
it  was  the  reallest  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me.  I 
only  sent  for  you  because  I  knew  that  he  didn't  love  me. 
I  loved  him  too  much  to  go  on  if  he  didn't  love  me. 
What  I  have  suffered,  Franklin.  And  now  he  is  going 
to  marry  Helen.  He  loves  Helen.  And  I  am  not  worthy 
of  you." 

"Poor  child,"  said  Franklin.  He  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  hair. 

"  You  know,  Franklin  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear." 

' '  I  am  not  worthy  of  you, ' '  Althea  repeated.  ' '  I  have 
been  weak  and  selfish.  I  've  used  you — to  hide  from 
myself — because  I  was  too  frightened  to  stand  alone  and 
give  up  things." 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  367 

' '  Well,  you  shan  't  stand  alone  any  more, ' '  said  Frank 
lin. 

"But,  Franklin — dear — kind  Franklin — why  should 
you  marry  me?  I  don't  love  you — not  as  I  loved  him. 
I  only  wanted  you  because  I  was  afraid.  I  must  tell 
you  all  the  truth.  I  only  want  you  now,  and  cling  to 
you  like  this,  because  I  am  afraid,  because  I  can't  go  on 
alone  and  have  nothing  to  live  for. ' ' 

"You  '11  have  me  now,  dear,"  said  Franklin. 
"You  '11  try  that,  won't  you,  and  perhaps  you  '11  find  it 
more  worth  while  than  you  think. ' ' 

Something  more  now  than  fear  and  loneliness  and 
penitence  was  piercing  her.  His  voice:  poor  Franklin's 
voice.  What  had  she  done  to  him?  What  had  they  all 
done  to  him  among  them  ?  And  dimly,  like  the  memory 
of  a  dream,  yet  sharply,  too,  as  such  memory  may  be 
sharp,  there  drifted  for  Althea  the  formless  fear  that 
hovered — formless  yet  urgent — when  Franklin  had  come 
to  her  in  her  desperate  need.  It  hovered,  and  it  seemed 
to  shape  itself,  as  if  through  delicate  curves  of  smoke, 
into  Helen's  face — Helen's  eyes  and  smile.  Helen, 
charm  embodied ;  Helen,  all  the  things  that  Franklin 
could  never  be;  all  the  things  she  had  believed  till  now, 
Franklin  could  never  feel  or  need.  What  did  she  know 
of  Franklin?  so  the  fear  whispered  softly.  What  had 
Helen  done  to  Franklin  ?  What  had  it  meant  to  Frank 
lin,  that  strange  mingling  with  magic  ? 

She  could  never  ask.  She  could  never  know.  It 
would  hover  and  whisper  always,  the  fear  that  had  yet 
its  beauty.  It  humbled  her  and  it  lifted  Franklin.  He 
was  more  than  she  had  believed.  She  had  believed  him 


368  FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE 

all  hers,  to  take;  but  it  was  he  who  had  given  himself 
to  her,  and  there  was  an  inmost  shrine — ah,  was  there 
not? — that  was  not  his  to  give.  And  pity,  deep  pity, 
and  sadness  immeasurable  for  a  loss  not  hers  alone,  was 
in  her  as  she  sobbed:  "Ah,  it  is  only  because  you  are 
sorry  for  me.  I  have  killed  all  the  rest.  You  are  not 
in  love  with  me  any  longer — poor — poor  Franklin — and 
everything  is  spoiled. ' ' 

But  Franklin  could  show  her  that  he  had  seen  the 
fear,  and  yet  that  life  was  not  spoiled  by  shrines  in  each 
heart  from  which  the  other  was  shut  out.  It  was  diffi 
cult  to  know  how  to  say  it ;  difficult  to  tell  her  that  some 
truth  she  saw  and  yet  that  there  was  more  truth  for 
them  both — plenty  of  truth,  as  he  would  have  said,  for 
them  both  to  live  on.  And  though  it  took  him  a  little 
while  to  find  the  words,  he  did  find  them  at  last,  com 
pletely,  for  her  and  for  himself,  saying  gently,  while  he 
held  her,  "No,  it  isn't,  dear.  It  's  not  spoiled.  It  's 
not  the  same — for  either  of  us — is  it? — but  it  isn't 
spoiled.  We  Ve  taken  nothing  from  each  other;  some 
things  weren't  ours,  that  's  all.  And  even  if  you  don't 
much  want  to  marry  me,  you  must  please  have  me,  now ; 
because  I  want  to  marry  you.  I  want  to  live  for  you  so 
much  that,  by  degrees,  I  feel  sure  of  it,  you  '11  want  to 
live  for  me,  too.  We  must  live  for  each  other;  we  Ve 
got  each  other.  Isn't  that  enough,  Althea?" 

"Is  it — is  it  enough?"  she  sobbed. 

' '  I  guess  it  is, ' '  said  Franklin. 

His  voice  was  sane  and  sweet,  even  if  it  was  sad.  It 
seemed  the  voice  of  life.  Althea  closed  her  eyes  and  let 
it  fold  her  round.  Only  with  Franklin  could  she  find 
consolation  in  her  defeat,  or  strength  to  live  without  the 


FRANKLIN  WINSLOW  KANE  369 

happiness  that  had  failed  her.  Only  Franklin  could 
console  her  for  having  to  take  Franklin.  Was  that 
really  all  that  it  came  to?  No,  she  felt  it  growing,  as 
they  sat  in  silence,  her  sobs  quieting,  her  head  on  his 
shoulder ;  it  came  to  more.  But  she  saw  nothing  clearly 
after  the  hateful,  soulless  seeing.  The  only  clear  thing 
was  that  it  was  good  to  be  with  Franklin. 


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